


Flowers Bloom In Our Masks

by UnicornFlowers



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Atsumu's actually a sweetheart, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Love, M/M, Mysophobia, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Sakusa Kiyoomi-centric, Sweet Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:33:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27033493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnicornFlowers/pseuds/UnicornFlowers
Summary: "Mysophobia, also known as verminophobia, germophobia, germaphobia, bacillophobia and bacteriophobia, is a pathological fear of contamination and germs.""You read that off of Wikipedia.""That's the point, Omi-kun. I read up on it fer you."
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 126
Kudos: 1007
Collections: My favorite haikyuu fics, So beautiful It makes me want to cry, ~SakuAtsu~





	1. ❀

_**“The two most powerful warriors are patience and time.” - Leo Tolstoy** _

-

Kiyoomi Sakusa can count the number of times he's lied to anyone on one hand, and at least four out of those ten times have revolved around Atsumu Miya.

He doesn't make a habit of lying because he doesn't see the point. Never in his life could anyone ever describe Kiyoomi Sakusa as a people pleaser, and he's never cared what people think of him - you get used to not caring when you suffer from an "incurable illness of the mind" as his therapist had once described to his mother. He wasn't supposed to have heard that.

But more than that, he simply found it easier to stay silent. Why tell a false truth when you could just hold your tongue instead? He's gotten used to that too - not saying. He doesn't say what he feels because he doesn't want anyone to know. They'll think he's trying to form a connection with them. Almost one hundred percent of the time he's not.

He doesn't say what he wants - if he wants something, he'll get it himself - he doesn't do small talk, he doesn't say what people want to hear, he doesn't say much of anything (unless it's responsive, informational, or for his own personal amusement). And he's okay with that. So it only makes sense that along with not-saying comes not-lying.

But he lies about Atsumu.

Sometimes lies are built into the not-saying part of things. Kiyoomi has accepted that fact. He doesn't like it, but then again, acceptance and enjoyment are two different things.

"Can you confirm suspicions that you and Miya-san are in a relationship?" Kiyoomi hates being approached after games - reporters sneaking up on him when he's at his most vulnerable. He doesn't have his mask, he's covered in sweat, for all he knows, they could have a deadly disease and he's going to die because the fanbase around the MSBY Jackals is a shipper's hell.

This is just the latest of numerous rumors spiraling - first it was Hinata and Bokuto (despite Akaashi being very publicly in the picture), then Kiyoomi and Ushijima. Before this it was Atsumu and Hinata - Kiyoomi hadn't liked that particular one. But they were all disproven, dismissed with the wave of a hand.

"No, we're not dating," He informs flatly. He hopes his expression isn't too hostile. If he's scowling, it's probably only half as harsh as she would get if Kiyoomi wasn't on permanent watch whenever it came to the press.

(He accidentally shoved a guy who tried to touch him and the man wound up with a hairline fracture from the fall. The team got sued for it. Their lawyer got the case dismissed on the grounds that the fan was assaulting him and not the other way around, but to this day Kiyoomi is still on Meian's watchlist around the press - "No mean faces," he had told the ace. "You don't want fans to be scared of you.")

"Fans want to know: do you have feelings for him?" Kiyoomi's eyes narrow dangerously - he can only hope this doesn't count as a mean face.

"No," The number of lies he's told can no longer fit on two hands.  
  
  


-  
  
  


Atsumu only mentions it a week later.

It's a belated response if Kiyoomi's ever heard one, but what annoys him is that he knows for a fact this means the rumor hasn't faded from existence yet. Atsumu is a simple man. You can usually infer what's going on in his immediate personal life based on the subjects he brings up in locker room talk.

"'D'ya know people think we're dating?" Kiyoomi does, but he doesn't answer.

Instead, he focuses on pulling his shirt over his head, looking anywhere other than the toned torso of his teammate. Atsumu is never bashful - he doesn't seem to understand the concept of embarrassment - not even when he's completely stripped of all clothing, standing in front of Kiyoomi in only a towel.

There's a moment before Kiyoomi realizes that Atsumu is still staring at him intently with those big brown eyes. _Oh, he actually expects me to answer,_ he processes belatedly. He turns to the blond, fixing his expression on the way. He can't have Atsumu knowing what's going on in his head. _Maybe this is another form of lying,_ he thinks.

"And?" He finally responds in monotone.

"And why don't we make it official?" Kiyoomi's brain stops functioning properly at his words. Confusion takes purchase in ink-black orbs, eyebrows scrunch, drawing the moles above his eyebrow together. _Is this a joke?_

"What?" He says because he doesn't know what other words to use.

Usually, he's much more articulate than this - Kiyoomi doesn't often need to ask people to repeat themselves. But this is a unique situation. He doesn't quite know what's real. This wouldn't be the first time Atsumu's delighted in poking fun at him. Although, it would be the first time he's ever hoped he's serious.

"I think I made it pretty clear, Omi. I'm askin' ya out. Like, on a date," Kiyoomi doesn't think he's ever seen Atsumu blush before. If he dares to go to extremes, he might tell you it's the most beautiful image he's ever seen - Atsumu, largely naked, well-developed muscles taut under tanned skin, the sweet blush dusting high cheekbones, a perfect intermingling of innocence and sin. Kiyoomi sometimes or always thinks he's gorgeous. He can't tell which one.

He will admit that he's often thought about what it would be like to date Atsumu Miya. Sometimes, though he'll never say it out loud, he wonders if Atsumu is someone who likes to cuddle. Much like Hinata and Bokuto, he's always very physically affectionate with his teammates. He can only assume it'd be the same way with his boyfriend. He wonders sometimes if Atsumu would be the kind of person who always wants to hold his hand, if he'd know how to cook food, if he'd put up with Kiyoomi's constant neat-freak tendencies-

The ace can only banish the thoughts as fast as he can manage.

It wouldn't work. Maybe the setter would be able to put up with it at first, but eventually, he'd get tired of Kiyoomi's constant need to wipe down every surface before he even thinks about touching it, his inability to touch other living beings, even the compulsive way he washes his hands would get on Atsumu's nerves eventually. He knows it will. It's been that way his whole life - no one is immune to the way the small annoyances mount, slowly building into insurmountable challenges.

It's not that he minds - or has minded, at least. Up until now, love has been a non-factor in his life, and up until now he's never wanted it. Up until now is the operative part of those sentences.

"Ya gotta say yes or no, Omi," Atsumu reminds him. The simple statement sends him crashing back to reality.

He weighs the pros and cons: Pro, he technically gets what he wants. Pro, he gets to date _Atsumu Miya._ Pro, he might get to see Atsumu Miya naked - like, without a towel. Pro, he's spared the pain of having to watch Atsumu date anyone _else._

Con, Atsumu likely won't get his meticulous habits - which will annoy the hell out of him. Con, Atsumu will get annoyed as fuck with him. Con, it can only end in heartbreak. The last one is assured. Atsumu's never been in a relationship that lasted more than three months, and Kiyoomi's never been in a relationship period. How can it work?

 _No,_ he should say.

"Okay," he says instead.  
  
  


-  
  
  


Atsumu doesn't know he has mysophobia.

He's sure the setter knows about his hated of germs, his fear of disease and sickness - if he doesn't, he's blind or currently setting a new record for how oblivious one person can be. But mysophobia is different than that. For Kiyoomi, the need for cleanliness is as real and substantial as his need for water.

Atsumu doesn't know he has mysophobia and Kiyoomi wants it to stay that way. There are a lot of reasons for this. He doesn't want Atsumu to know because he's very sure it will freak the setter out at the very least, if not drive him away completely. He doesn't want Atsumu to know because he knows the blond won't truly understand - that he'll start questioning after a while why Kiyoomi can't just _get over it._ He doesn't want Atsumu to know because, for the first time, the ace actually, genuinely cares what another person thinks of him.

No, Atsumu doesn't know that Kiyoomi has mysophobia, and it is going to stay that way.

Atsumu is patient with him as he wipes down the surface of the table they sit at on their first date. He doesn't complain that Kiyoomi's taking too long before they sit down. He doesn't complain about the scattered stares they draw from the very few people sitting in the coffee shop this late at night. And he doesn't complain that the clean, lemony scent clashes violently with the coffee they order. In fact, he acts as if it's completely normal.

"I'm actually surprised ya agreed to go out with me," Atsumu blows gently on the top of his coffee as they sit down. He has a habit, Kiyoomi's noticed, of taking the lid off his coffee before he drinks it, like he's scared of not being able to see the liquid inching it's way up the cup. But it's just the not-seeing he's afraid of. Not the temperature itself.

"Why?" Kiyoomi feels exposed without his mask, micro-expressions on display for anyone skilled enough to read them.

"Ya really gotta ask that?" The ace furrows his eyebrows in a clear sign of confusion. Yes, he really does. Kiyoomi knows he's attractive. Social media and most fans he's come into contact with have no trouble remarking on it. But beyond that, he doesn't consider himself all that dateable. "I like ya, Omi. And yer hot." He expected as much.

"I'm flattered," Sarcasm is his tool of choice, as usual.

"Wow, yer usually pretty quiet but yer even less talkative on dates," Kiyoomi watches tentatively as Atsumu tangles his fingers around the coffee cup in his hands, warming them from the cold outside that must've seeped through his long-sleeved shirt. It's cold out. His nose is red. _Cute,_ Kiyoomi's brain insists, though he tries adamantly to ignore himself.

"You have no point of reference," A beat of silence and then: "I don't get you."

"Really?" There's something akin to amusement sparkling in Atsumu's eyes. It's his trademark look, and it fits him damningly well. "How's that?" A smile pulls on his lips - it's more like a smirk. Heavy-lidded eyes watch him expectantly.

_You could have anyone you want, but you choose me? You're attractive enough to get anyone to say yes to you but you choose the least charming person you can find. Are you attracted to a bad attitude and a lack of social graces? I just spent ten minutes cleaning a table we watched someone clean through a window and you didn't say anything about it._

Kiyoomi doesn't end up answering, just ends up staring at the setter as he always does - silently observing perfection in its natural state.

Instead, they start talking - about things unrelated to Kiyoomi's social etiquette. It's strange, Kiyoomi thinks, how it's easy to talk to Atsumu even though it's not easy for him to talk to anyone. Years of being on the same team will do that do you, though he's sure that this wouldn't be the same if it were Bokuto or Hinata. He hopes it wouldn't.

Kiyoomi tells Atsumu about the science behind love - why it's a fallacy created by your brain, a hormonal con-job manufactured generously by your body. Atsumu calls him pessimistic, tells him he shouldn't knock it till he tries it. Kiyoomi doesn't further the subject. Maybe he doesn't want to. But more likely he's too scared to.

They talk about their last match, Bokuto's last big play of the game - in which he'd managed to save what should've been a lost ball with the tip of his foot. Atsumu claims he's that crazy talented, Kiyoomi argues it's dumb luck just to be controversial. They both know it's a combination of the two, but both refuse to admit that.

And when they part for the night, Atsumu makes no move to touch him. Kiyoomi is grateful for that fact. He doesn't ask Kiyoomi for a kiss, he doesn't ask to hold hands or hug. Instead, the blond leaves him with, _"I'll see you in twelve hours,"_ and Kiyoomi watches him retreat backward in the opposite direction, the soft glow of the coffee shop lights framing him as he jokingly blows the ace a kiss. Kiyoomi wrinkles his nose in mock disgust at the gesture.

Atsumu knows he doesn't like contact. Atsumu doesn't know he has mysophobia. It's going to stay that way.  
  
  


-  
  
  


It doesn't stay that way.

It's freezing the first time Atsumu tries to hold his hand. Kiyoomi's hands are warm because he naturally runs hot, but he can see the setter beside him suffering, arms wrapped around himself like a protective shell, breath coming out in short, shivering huffs. _I would warm you up if I could,_ he doesn't say even though he might want to.

 _He's cute like this,_ Kiyoomi thinks - cheekbones and nose dusted with a cherry red color, eyes still childishly wide despite the cold in order to take in the glittering scenery around them. Atsumu is much like a child in a lot of aspects in life - he's immature, his temperament is that of a five-year-old's, he has a complete inability to deal with conflict like an adult - but this might be the one Kiyoomi likes best. Despite being obscene and crude, overly-charming, and an all-around fuckboy, he is somehow innocent. Kiyoomi can't fathom how.

They don't talk - they don't need to. Kiyoomi doesn't think he would know what to say anyway. It's largely all or nothing when it comes to words with him. He either says exactly what's on his mind, or nothing at all. And he's definitely not going to tell Atsumu that he looks like an angel with his hair splayed messily across his forehead due to the hat his mother had forcefully given him. The setter doesn't need his ego inflated anymore than it already is.

It's a quiet moment. Most of Kiyoomi's moments are quiet anyway, but this one is truly sweet. It breaks, however, like most things in his life do.

They're walking to practice together because they both take the same route when Atsumu outstretches his hand to lace his fingers with Kiyoomi's. The attempt half-succeeds - their knuckles brush - before Kiyoomi hisses at the contact and jerks his hand away. His whole body moves with him, putting a healthy distance between the two. It doesn't hurt, it doesn't even feel all that weird. But force of habit makes him flinch.

Atsumu stares, frozen, eyes wide with a combination of shock and confusion. Kiyoomi's heart almost breaks in half at the fear taking purchase in the setter's eyes - he only now realizes that he reacted as though Atsumu had burned him and an unfamiliar guilt weighs heavy like a stone in his chest at the way Atsumu stares at him.

 _If I was a different person, I promise I would hold your hand. But I'm not,_ he's sure his face doesn't reflect his thoughts. It seldom does unless he's feeling extreme annoyance toward someone. Occasionally, it frustrates him, but then he has to remind himself that he doesn't care what other people think. He tries his best not to. _Other people's opinions are useless,_ he tells himself half-truthfully.

He doesn't apologize. But it's the first time he's ever felt like he had to.  
  
  


Atsumu doesn't talk to him the rest of the day.

He doesn't not talk to him - they interact when it's required, Meian has them running drills together. But they don't talk. There's no playful banter, there's none of Kiyoomi's dragging eye-rolls to accent his insults, Atsumu doesn't even make fun of him. They practice in virtual silence

Minutes drag out into hours at a glacial pace.

Kiyoomi's had a lot of people mad at him in the past, it is not some unheard-of thing. He isn't sweet or innocent like Bokuto. He isn't so insistently optimistic that it makes it hard for anyone to hold a grudge against him like Hinata. He can't charm his way out of anything like Atsumu. His chilly personality naturally lends itself to the role of the outcast.

If Atsumu is mad at him, it's nothing out of the norm.

It doesn't bother him - that's another lie, but he doesn't count that one since he hasn't verbalized it. Should he be counting lies to himself? _Does lying to oneself qualify as morally wrong?_ he wonders as he watches Atsumu's bottom lip catch between his teeth.

Concentration is a good look on him. It stems all the way down to his rigid posture, muscles tensed and ready for action at the drop of a dime, and it travels into his lips - he bites his lips a lot, Kiyoomi's noticed. They're red and swollen. Then to his ears - he wiggles them to relieve stress. _He'd be terrible at poker,_ Kiyoomi reasons. His tell is so obvious, anyone would spot it in a second. It takes the shape of a crease between his eyebrows, glows in his eyes, hazy.

Kiyoomi's fall back to the present is harsh. A volleyball hits him in the face, enough force behind it to draw blood from his nose - Kiyoomi is graceful, when he has the mind to be. The foreign liquid streams down his lips, pooling at the seam of them, and he knows if he doesn't open his mouth, it will continue to dribble down his chin. Momentary indecision is forced upon him as he debates whether the taste of blood is worse than the feeling of it.

His tongue peeks out to swipe at his bottom lip and he shudders unpleasantly at the metallic, salty taste. He hates bleeding for one reason and one reason only: it's messy. If it didn't stain unstainable surfaces and insist on getting _everywhere,_ he could care less. But it flows like a river, congeals in all the wrong places, and worst of all, refuses to stop.

Kiyoomi doesn't dare touch his face.

"Omi!" Spacial awareness is lost on him as Atsumu appears by his side out of the blue. He appears from thin air like an angel among lowly mortals. His concentration is gone, replaced with worry. "Fuck, 'm sorry I didn't expect ya to zone out like that." Kiyoomi scrunches his eyebrows in a futile attempt to decipher who the blame is supposed to be on.

Atsumu doesn't touch him - more like he doesn't dare. The setter is a healthy foot away from him, one hand steadies him on his knees, the other hovers over Kiyoomi's shoulder, apprehension taking its place in his eyes. Atsumu will not touch him, Kiyoomi knows. The setter is brash and obnoxious, but he is not stupid.  
  
  


Meian tells them to get it looked at, so they sit in the infirmary together, silence sterile around them like the smell of the room. It's funny how a word can take on two different meanings. Kiyoomi likes the clean, uncontaminated smell of a medical facility. He does not like the nothing that surrounds them.

Atsumu does not sit next to him on the bed. Instead, he sits on the stool, taking the place of the nurse. _Atsumu would be useless as a medical professional,_ Kiyoomi knows. And he doesn't touch Kiyoomi as he offers him wipes to clean up the dried blood on his fingers - he didn't give in to the temptation to touch all the way there only for the cleanliness of his fingers to be ruined in order to assist in the care of his injured nose.

Kiyoomi isn't good at being the first one to speak, a fact that has done him a disservice many times in his life. An issue coils tight in his chest and he has no way to release the tension. The words he wants to say collide with the words he should say, and everything he shouldn't contaminates them both.

"You're mad at me," A statement, the sweet spot between an accusation and a question.

Atsumu looks at him as though he cannot possibly fathom what he's talking about. It's a lie, Kiyoomi knows. But that's to be expected. Atsumu (much like the rest of the population) lies far more than Kiyoomi does. _He probably doesn't count his,_ the ace acknowledges. He's fine with that. Honesty is only a part of truth.

"What?"

"I would say don't play dumb but you're always dumb," He doesn't receive a reaction - he didn't expect one. Maybe he just doesn't see it as his eyes are glued to the pristine floor of the infirmary. He doesn't feel the need to elaborate on what he's talking about. If Atsumu doesn't know, he's even denser than the ace can comprehend.

A moment of silence that could be an hour stretches thin around them. The slinky of time elongates before abruptly snapping back into place.

"I'm not mad, Omi Omi," Atsumu finally says softly. Tenderness floods his voice and Kiyoomi hurts that it's for him. Only because he knows he wouldn't react the same way if their positions were flipped. _Why don't you want to touch me?_ He might ask if he didn't know better. _Did I do something wrong?_ Atsumu doesn't say either of those things. Instead, he says, "I'm just thinkin'."

 _Wow, you thinking? Don't hurt yourself,_ he wants to say. He again chooses silence as his communication method of choice. The words wouldn't fit the space it leaves. It's a right place right time situation, and this is neither of those.

Hours could've passed since either of them last said a word before Atsumu is suddenly standing unprompted, stretching most ungracefully as though he'd just woken up from a hundred-year slumber. The only reason Kiyoomi knows it hasn't is because the sun is still bright orange, reminiscent of the shortest portion of the afternoon - just like when they had come in.

"We should get back to practice before Meian assumes wer dead," Atsumu grabs the hoddie he'd been toting around as if he would use it.

Kiyoomi isn't done with this subject, and he doubts Atsumu is either, but the setter's gaze over his shoulder seems to say, _don't worry, we got time._ And Kiyoomi relaxes.

But relaxation does not mean he's done. Kiyoomi doesn't want time, he wants Atsumu to understand.

"Mysophobia," He says as he stands up. He still doesn't look at Atsumu, preoccupying himself with a poster on the wall about ACL injuries instead - he's never experienced one and doesn't want to. He's heard they can be the death of pro-volleyball careers.

"What?" He can feel those brown eyes on him, scanning him for any sign of a reaction to his request for a repeat. Kiyoomi gives him none, standing almost as still as a statue, eyes glued to a picture of a throbbing knee.

"Mysophobia. That's what it is."  
  
  


-  
  
  


Touch is something Kiyoomi's never had, but despite what most people think, it's not something he doesn't want.

It's hard for people to understand when they aren't inside Kiyoomi's head. It's hard for them to understand that he wants human touch just as much as a "normal" person, he's just scared enough of catching a deadly disease that he doesn't engage in it. It's hard for them to understand that, if he had the motivation to, he would gladly hold the hand of someone who had washed or sanitized said hands prior.

But he doesn't. He doesn't hold hands or even give high fives because people don't take as much care with their personal hygiene as he does. He doesn't trust them, to put it simply. He doesn't know how to, he doesn't want to. He doesn't desire to know how to slap his palm against his teammate's sweaty hand without his skin crawling at the touch. That would be gross and they would be covered in germs.

But that doesn't mean he doesn't _want_ it.

Yes, he does want to hold Atsumu's hand. No, he's not there yet.

People say they want to go skydiving. That doesn't mean they desire to be pushed out of a plane miles above the ground at that very second. Would you kick someone who wants to learn how to swim into the deep end of the pool? No. All that would get you is the privilege of watching another person drown. People who want to high dive don't just take a nose dive off the edge of a cliff one day.

The same applies to holding hands.  
  
  


-  
  
  


A knock on his apartment door ruins his sleep schedule at three in the morning. To say the least, it goes far beyond the limits of a normal annoyance.

This is because, much like everything else in his world, Kiyoomi's sleep schedule is carefully crafted to suit his ideal needs. He wakes up at seven because practice starts at nine - a time accommodating of his morning run, breakfast, and shower. Practice ends at four, which is really five because of the daily struggle of whether or not to shower in the locker room or at home - this is largely determined by his teammates. And since he allots himself an hour for dinner, an hour for housekeeping, and two hours of free time, this means he's in bed by nine. And since he's never had a problem getting to sleep quickly, that's ten solid hours of sleep.

Not tonight, whoever is at his door has apparently decided for him.

He angrily tears the covers off, cold stinging his skin and the soles of his feet as they hit the hardwood. He would take the time to dress more appropriately for the bothersomely low temperatures, but another insistent knock pulls him along. Why doesn't he just ignore it and go back to sleep? His psyche would never allow him that peace. He would live the rest of his life knowing that whoever was at his door never got to deliver their message.

So he stomps to the door of his apartment as if maybe whoever is on the other side of it will hear him and feel bad about waking him up. He can't feel his fingers as he nearly rips the door off of its hinges.

Of course it's Atsumu in pajama pants and an over-sized hoodie who stands in his doorway at three in the goddamn morning. If he wasn't so cute with his hair slightly mussed from the hat he's wearing and eyes hazy with sleep deprivation, Kiyoomi would slam the door in his face. But he is adorable, and Kiyoomi, for all his meticulous habits and cold exterior, is but a mere man.

"Mysophobia, also known as verminophobia, germophobia, germaphobia, bacillophobia, and bacteriophobia, is a pathological fear of contamination and germs," Atsumu recites the second Kiyoomi flings the door open. Kiyoomi flattens his expression as he stares at the man in the doorway, shivering slightly. _He actually came here at three in the morning to say this. He's not properly dressed to be out in freezing weather._

"You read that off of Wikipedia," Kiyoomi deadpans.

"That's the point, Omi-Kun. I read up on it _fer you,_ " The ace's heart jumps in his chest at the admission that slips easily from Atumu's lips, because of course, his body has to remind him of how he feels. _Shut up,_ he wants to tell it.

"That _is_ impressive. I didn't know you could read," Atsumu throws his hands up indignantly but keeps a tight hold on the sleeves of his hoodie so as not to expose his hands to the freezing air. 

Kiyoomi remembers those knuckles, flushed with the cold, brushing against his, thinks about how the fabric of his sleeves has replaced true warmth. If Kiyoomi was a different person, he would grab Atsumu's hands and warm them in his, and then he would lead the setter into his apartment and forcibly cuddle him until he stopped visibly shivering. Maybe he'll get to. He hopes he will. But tonight, it's not a possibility.

"Seriously?! I'm trying to be nice here-" He _knows._

"I know...I'm sorry," Atsumu momentarily falters at the apology - Kiyoomi never apologizes for anything unless it's to save himself from Meian's tirades - but he recovers quickly.

"My point is that 'M not gonna give up on ya just 'cause ya don't wanna hold my hand," Atsumu's lips draw into a tight line, and Kiyoomi wonders when he became so sweet. _Maybe he's always been this way,_ his brain supplies helpfully. But that couldn't be the case. If it is, Kiyoomi's wasted years.

His scowl is cute, somewhere between angry and focused, edging on determined. Kiyoomi might be weak, though he'll adamantly deny it if asked.

"Why?" The one-word question slips out before he can stop it. He should really stop questioning Atsumu on this. He knows he has a natural tendency not to believe people when they show genuine interest in him - a psychologist once called him fundamentally damaged - but if he did, it's only because it's hard to believe. He silently kicks himself for not knowing when to shut up. He should just be grateful that Atsumu even cares enough to stay.

Atsumu's expression softens into confusion, lips becoming adorably pouty as if the answer to that should be obvious.

"Because I like ya, Omi-Kun," It's the most genuine thing anyone's ever said to him. But Atsumu is always genuine, so it shouldn't come as much of a surprise even though it does. Kiyoomi isn't used to being wanted. Don't get me wrong, he's not depressed, and he's perfectly fine with his mysophobia. He's okay with people thinking he's weird, strange, even as far out as _odd_. But in his experience, that tends to drive people away. His lack of social graces coupled with his time-consuming habits should be deterrent enough for any normal person. But not Atsumu.

 _Maybe he's attracted to crazy,_ he thinks. And then: _maybe he's crazy._  
  
  


-  
  
  


Atsumu makes no attempt to touch him.

They go on dates - a lot of them - because for some reason Kiyoomi can't understand, Atsumu seems to enjoy his presence an unreasonable amount. Coffee dates are their most frequent ones since they can walk straight from there to practice, but they go to other places like the movies - at which Kiyoomi _tried_ to convince Atsumu that he should really improve his diet only to be met with stubborn resistance. 

They went to the amusement park once, but they left after five minutes because it was hell for the ace, a fact that brought Atsumu far too much laughter. The rest of that rare off day was spent passing a volleyball back and forth in the gym (to which they had to con the keys away from Meian).

Kiyoomi doesn't talk much save for the occasional insult or response to a question Atsumu asks, but the setter doesn't seem deterred in the slightest by it, gladly filling the silence he leaves with cheerful chatter about anything and everything. And when the setter runs out of things to say, which isn't often, the silence is sweet, surrounding them with the soft reminder that they have forever.

Sometimes Kiyoomi can see the annoyance - or a softer version of it - showing through. 

It's in the way he taps his foot while he waits for Kiyoomi to make sure the tables aren't contaminated. He can see it in the way he frowns at the idea that there are some places Kiyoomi flat out refuses to go - clubs, sports events other than volleyball, public swimming pools, or even worse, the beach. It's ever-present in the way Atsumu has to preoccupy his hands to avoid instinctively touching his boyfriend.

( _He shouldn't have to,_ Kiyoomi's brain sometimes screams at him. _Well, he does,_ the ace screams back.)

But Atsumu is patient with him. He doesn't fuss, he doesn't say a word about it, actually. Kiyoomi would've expected him to be getting impatient for touch a month and a half into their relationship, or at least any sign of discontentment. But Atsumu says nothing. He treats everything as if it is exactly how it should be.

Kiyoomi sometimes wonders how long it will last.

It certainly can't last forever, he knows. He enjoys Atsumu, everything about Atsumu, but there is an itch at the back of his mind. It reminds him that everyone has their limit, Atsumu's is just farther than most. 

It reminds him that Atsumu isn't getting everything he deserves to have, doesn't have everything he could have with someone else. It reminds him that while he sits agonizing, Atsumu is still waiting.

That itch is the crack in his marble facade, and from it, insecurities bloom like flowers.  
  
  


-  
  
  


The first time Kiyoomi invites Atsumu over to his apartment, it's cold and it's November.

The ace had agreed to it in a moment of weakness - Atsumu had been begging him for quite some time and the blond had been standing in front of him half-naked, and his abs were just sitting there like, _look at me, I'm the gold standard of perfection. You want to lick chocolate sauce off me don't ya, Omi._ Weak, sometimes Kiyoomi Sakusa was very weak.

So yes, he had, inevitably, agreed, but not without a few very pertinent conditions.

For one thing, Atsumu had to shower and brush his teeth and wash his clothes beforehand.

For another, before he even entered Kiyoomi's place of dwelling, he had to use the hand sanitizer Kiyoomi had given him for his birthday - yes, Kiyoomi Sakusa absolutely would be the suburban dad to hand out toothbrushes instead of candy on Halloween. He takes pride in that fact.

The ace had even given him whatever the visual version of a frisking was with his eyes as if he could see any stray germs floating on him before letting him step into his apartment. That was the first challenge - Kiyoomi's comfort. The second was Atsumu's. That's going to be more of a challenge.

It's November, so yes, it is cold.

Kiyoomi doesn't really mind the cold - he finds it sedating, it helps his mind and body alike relax. He often finds that he sleeps better when it's cold. But Atsumu doesn't seem to share his sentiment.

The blond doesn't say it out loud because he's too busy talking his head off about how neat the place is, but Kiyoomi has learned over time how to read the subtle gestures of people around him. It's a habit brought about by years of figuring out exactly which tick is it that sets them off. Is it his inability to keep any distance less than a foot away from them? Is it his insistence that they use hand sanitizer before even thinking about approaching him?

Atsumu is cold, but he doesn't say it.

"Omi, yer apartment is like, _so_ neat," He marvels as if he's never seen a clean room before. Maybe he hasn't. Osamu has always been the more put-together of the two twins, and even then, they shared a room until both twins moved out. "There isn't even dust! How's that possible?"

"It's called cleaning. You should try it sometime," Kiyoomi snarks. What else can he do? He's sure over the years it's the only way he's learned to communicate with Atsumu without breaking down into praises. _That would be worse than death,_ he decides as the image of Atsumu's smug, perfect smile enters his mind.

"Geez, ya really have it out fer me, huh? Waddaya get off on bein' mean to me?" Kiyoomi scoffs as he kneels by the coffee table. The bottom shelf of it contains spare blankets he almost never uses. Maybe he'll actually have a reason to take them out now. However, he tries to be as subtle as possible. The last thing he needs is Atsumu gloating about what a softie he is to their teammates.

"Not really, you just make it _so_ easy," He tosses a blanket at his boyfriend. He thinks of Atsumu as his boyfriend, though they've never solidified it in words. Meian has told them not to, the press would trample them before the confession even escaped their mouths.

Another flower blooms in his mask. _Boyfriend._ They've never said it. He's sure Atsumu wouldn't mind, but he's sure as hell not going to ask.

Within seconds, Atsumu is burritoed in the soft, faded pink of his fuzzy blanket, golden hair smushed against his forehead, smile almost childish, bordering on a grin. 

Kiyoomi wants to hug him desprately, wants to drop feathery stardust kisses to his cold-flushed cheeks, cuddle him until they both fall asleep to the sound of a scary movie. His brain won't let him. He's stuck in a constant war with himself. He wants to hold him but he can't. He wants to kiss him, but he won't.

They order delivery (because neither of them has the motivation to pick up takeout and both are too lazy to try and make something out of the mismatched food in Kiyoomi's fridge) and sit on Kiyoomi's couch. 

He would normally cringe at the idea of eating anywhere other than his dining table, but he makes this exception for Atsumu. It's a small compromise and it doesn't nearly compare to what Atsumu's giving up for him, but he does what he can. This is what he can do.

They watch The Conjuring and Atsumu munches on popcorn. He falls for every jumpscare - _"how do you keep falling for these?"_ He asks the blond halfway through when they take a break. His rhetorical question earns him a pout and Kiyoomi decides he's not dissatisfied with that outcome.

You'd be hardpressed to find a horror movie that actually scares Kiyoomi. As someone who has a uniquely high tolerance for fear, the ace barely even flinches at things normal people would scream at. Atsumu doesn't have the same outlook on the situation.

At anything even mildly scary, he freaks out. He falls for every jumpscare, he covers his eyes when he's worried something bad will happen, he retreats fully into his blanket cocoon when something sad happens and he's worried he might cry - Kiyoomi can read him far easier than Atsumu thinks or might like. It's cute, but it makes his chest ache.

He wonders. Wonders what he can do. He wants to make Atsumu feel better - he knows he's probably used to latching onto someone. He's seen it when the team gets together. He watches as Atsumu clings to the closest person who'll let him - usually Bokuto or Hinata. The way his setter hands grip the edges of the soft blanket is evidence of the instability he feels without the assurance of another human being beside him.

Kiyoomi's heart beats in his ears as he moves what is barely a fraction of a foot but feels like a mile toward his bundle of a boyfriend at the other edge of the couch. He can't hear what's happening in the movie over the sound of blood pumping in his ears as he gently taps Atsumu on what he assumes must be his kneecap, though the only texture he can feel is the velvety blanket under his fingertips.

He can feel Atsumu's head snap to the side, he can envision the look on his face as he processes what's happening, but he isn't brave enough to indulge himself in the sight. He stares straight ahead at the movie as he opens his palm toward Atsumu, an inviting gesture, _it's here for you, I'm here for you, if you want._

Kiyoomi waits for a moment and briefly wonders if Atsumu isn't going to take the invitation - maybe he doesn't understand it as such - and another insecurity forms. But then he feels Atsumu's hand, warmer than he expected, slip into his like a puzzle piece slotted into place.

Kiyoomi stops breathing as he fights his brain's innate urge to pull away immediately. Habit tells him this is wrong, but he can't feel it ringing in his nerves like it should. There is no itchy, burning sensation with the contact, no intense disgust that screams at him to run as far away as he possibly can. It's just... _warm._

Atsumu is warm, that's all there is to it. Not too hot, but comfortingly _warm._ It makes a tender feeling of affection swell in his chest. The feeling is unfamiliar - he doesn't think he's ever felt this before - but it's not unwelcome. He quite adores the sensation, he can't help but hope it lasts forever.

He's still not brave enough to look at Atsumu. _This is a step,_ he reminds himself. They started six feet apart and now they're here, linked by the intertwining of fingers. It heals a fissure in his mask.

It's not mind-blowing, but it is perfect. The way Atsumu squeezes his hand when he's scared - though Kiyoomi can tell that he's trying his best not to crush the ace's hand in his setter grip. The way he rubs small circles into Kiyoomi's knuckles, traces patterns on the back of his hand with his thumb, lazy strokes drawing invisible works of art across his skin.

They stay like that for the rest of the night, hands entwined as they binge horror movies - some better than others. They stay like that until Atsumu falls asleep in his blanket burrito and Kiyoomi is forced to relinquish his grip on the setter - if only to move the blanket gently to prevent his boyfriend from suffocating himself accidentally.

Kiyoomi leaves him there - he doesn't feel good about it, alright? But he's not going to wake him up (Atsumu's too precious for that), and he barely managed to hold hands with the man, he's sure as hell not going to pick him up. 

Then there's the issue of Kiyoomi having only one bedroom because he never thought he'd be in the situation of needing another. So Atsumu stays there, curled up on Kiyoomi's couch, fast asleep and oblivious to his boyfriend's inner struggle.

 _I'll make it up to him,_ Kiyoomi promises himself. And then: _when did I become a fucking sap?_  
  
  


-  
  
  


Kiyoomi knows how to make Eggo waffles, so that's what they have for breakfast.

In all honesty, if Atsumu was enough of an adult to pull himself out of bed before ten-thirty, Kiyoomi might have left the job of breakfast up to him - cooking genes run in the Miya family, apparently. But Kiyoomi decides he'll be nice, just this once. He won't be nice to Atsumu _about_ it, but the gesture should speak for itself.

"I never knew ya could be so sweet, Omi-Kun," Atsumu coos affectionately as he sits down at Kiyoomi's dining table. He's still wrapped in Kiyoomi's blanket that might as well be his now considering Kiyoomi's never used it. He doesn't even know how it came into his possession.

"Shut up or I'll eat your waffle," The ace would have snarked back with something better, but sleep is still hanging in his mind on a lazy Saturday morning. Atsumu just rolls his eyes before proceeding to munch happily on his waffle.

 _He's so easy to appease, it's almost cute_ , Kiyoomi thinks as he watches the blond eat the strawberry freezer waffle like it's a cookie. And it's true. Atsumu has never been high maintenance. He's a drama queen, yes, and he's definitely an attention whore. But he's surprisingly easy to satisfy. Kiyoomi is grateful for that fact seeing as he himself could probably win awards when it comes to his sheer number of needs. 'High maintenance' is one of the pillars of his personality.

"Yer so dainty Omi," Atsumu gestures vaguely with his head in the direction of Kiyoomi's fork. So what? He cuts his waffles into neat squares. It's called having table manners - something Atsumu has no concept of. "Like a princess. Princess Omi."

"Are you seriously giving me shit about the way I eat? After I made you breakfast?"

"One, ya made frozen waffles 'cause ya don't know how to cook," Atsumu points out helpfully. That earns him a characteristic scowl. He ignores Kiyoomi, pointing an accusing finger at his boyfriend instead. "Two, that's sexist. Princess ain't an insult 'less ya make it out to be one."

"It's not sexist. I just know you. And you're a dick," Kiyoomi skillfully ignores the first, correct, accusation.

"Ouch, remind me not to give you compliments," Atsumu holds his coffee with both hands, as he does with everything he eats or drinks. It's both a delicate and clumsy gesture, as if he's worried it'll suddenly disappear from out in front of him. Kiyoomi wonders if Atsumu would hold him with just as much care.

"You never give me compliments anyway," The ace solidifies. It's not really true, Atsumu absentmindedly calls him hot, beautiful, sexy, without even thinking. He never pays him intentional compliments, though, but it's in his mannerisms. "And if you do they're always in the form of an insult."

"Touché."

Atsumu doesn't talk about the hand-holding, and Kiyoomi is grateful for that. The rest of the day, he doesn't bring it up, he doesn't talk about it to anyone - Kiyoomi was half-worried Atsumu might gloat about getting the infamously touch-averse Kiyoomi Sakusa to hold his hand, but he doesn't.

Even when he insists they meet Bokuto and Akaashi for lunch, he says nothing of the matter. They're too busy arguing about who was the real MVP of their last game anyway. Akaashi is in suffering. Kiyoomi can share his sentiment.

Even when they're walking back to Kiyoomi's apartment (that he will definitely have to deep clean come Monday - it isn't anything personal, Kiyoomi wouldn't have even let anyone else in his apartment) Atsumu doesn't ask for any form of physical affection. Instead, there's a gentle understanding that fills the silence - _take your time._

Kiyoomi doesn't want time.

He reaches into Atsumu's pocket to lace their fingers. His lungs momentarily stop working before the feeling falls into normalcy, Atsumu's natural warmth melts his fears. And he'll have to wash his hands after this because Atsumu does not have the same inhibitions about touching public surfaces that he does, but for now, he lets himself enjoy the sensation - the feeling of security it provides. He's rooted to the ground. Atsumu will always lead him back home.

Today, he looks at Atsumu's face. His handsome features are painted with joy, sweet, innocent, wondrous joy. Perched on his lips is the most genuine smile Kiyoomi's ever had the privilege of laying eyes on, a bounce graces his step, and a soft, satisfied sigh escaped his lips in time with a gentle squeeze to Kiyoomi's hand.

He squeezes back.  
  
  


-  
  
  


On nights few and far between, Kiyoomi sometimes wonders how he got so lucky with Atsumu - was it his conquering of a one in a billion chance, or was it cosmically aligned, decided somewhere beyond the stars before either of them were even born?

And he did get lucky. Who else would last this long? Who else has the patience to stay? Kiyoomi took two and a half fucking months to work up to even holding his hand. _How long can he wait?_

Kiyoomi sometimes loses control of his flowers. He overwaters them with all the learned experience from years of a life lived in almost total solitude. 

Atsumu must have flowers too. Everyone does. They're budding insecurities that haven't taken full shape yet - the foreshadowing of a breakdown on the edge of becoming your new reality. They can't be avoided, like weeds they grow, disguised as precious beauties.

He wonders if his fear of touch is a flower for Atsumu. If it makes him feel insecure that his own boyfriend is unable to do anything more than hold his hand. He worries about the flowers growing too big and beautiful, until they overtake reason in his mind. He worries that the flowers will replace what they have. He knows it's not enough for Atsumu - at least, it shouldn't be.

Kiyoomi doesn't touch him, doesn't call them boyfriends, doesn't express just _how much_ he cares - and he does care - so what does he have? Kiyoomi would leave, if he's being honest.

His flowers would have bloomed into a full garden by now. 


	2. ✿

Kiyoomi doesn't care about holidays. Especially the winter ones.

They're pointless traditions, he feels. Why bother with decorations and special celebrations just because someone a long time ago deemed a certain day special? It's so much effort to go through for a date that doesn't actually mean anything.

Then there's the problem of the fact that people come out of the woodwork like termites during the holiday season. People looking for a good deal, idiots who think that gifts are the most important part of Christmas, normal people who just want to celebrate, and the worst of all these monsters: _children._

Children are disease factories, specially manufactured to spread contagion. They're sweaty and snotty and bratty. And they _love_ Kiyoomi.

They run up to him after games, cling to his legs and arms, hug him like he's their older brother or something. And he's not allowed to say anything about it because they're children, and guess what's a better publicity stunt than kids? Nothing. Meian would have his head if he ever scared off a kid after a game.

His saving grace in this situation, as with most, is Atsumu Miya. If there's one thing that seems to attract kids more than Kiyoomi's seething disgust radiating off him in waves, it's Atsumus Miya's hair. There's something about its messy golden strands that seem to draw children's hands like nothing else. But what truly inspires awe in the ace is that Atsumu has no qualms about letting the kids swarm him like bees while he sits on the sweat-covered gym floor.

A smile rests on his lips, a grin actually, as they ruffle their stubby sausage fingers through his bleached locks. How he can be so happy being surrounded by beings that still probably pick their noses is a mystery to Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi thanks a god he doesn't believe in that Atsumu is the first one to jump in the shower when they reach the locker room. Kiyoomi also makes a habit of showering before his teammates if at all possible - he hates the idea of traveling anywhere covered in sweat and there's no way he's going to shower after Bokuto or Hinata.

However, unlike his boyfriend, Atsumu doesn't stumble out of the locker room as fast as humanly possible. Instead, he waits for the ace, who's still in the process of dressing himself. This renders them the last two in the place, but Kiyoomi doesn't mind that. A sleepy hush settles between them as Atsumu leans against the lockers opposite from him.

"So are ya coming to Bokkun's tonight?" The silence is punctured by the question, and Kiyoomi turns, confused.

Yes, he heard about Bokuto's "Christmas Party." As Hinata had described it, "the fun version of an office Christmas party 'cause we have the fun version of normal people jobs!" But Kiyoomi doesn't go to parties. Even if they're hosted by their friends.

Kiyoomi knows he should go - Bokuto won't get the chance to see them one Christmas because he'll be visiting Akaashi's family, and most of the team already have plans for the 25th - but he hates parties. He really does.

"No," He'll go, he knows. Atsumu will manage to convince him, a soft side of him will feel bad enough to cave.

"Oh come _on_ Omi. We only got two days 'till everyone leaves. Dontcha wanna at least see them before they'll be gone for a week?" Yes, he likes his teammates - a _little bit_ \- no, he has no vested interest in seeing them before they leave. It sounds cold, but he'll see them when they get back anyway.

"We'll see them when they get back," He reasons.

" _Please_ Omi?" Atsumu is giving him that soft pleading look. It's unfair, like handing Superman a necklace made of Kryptonite. "C'mon I don't ask for much."

Kiyoomi frowns. He knows it's true. Atsumu never asks him for anything - seriously, at least - he should probably do him this one favor.

"Fine, but don't expect me to have fun," He concedes with a scowl, knowing it's going to be a long, hellish night. Maybe, at least, Atsumu will indulge him in some alone time later. Though he is still most definitely going to keep this in his back pocket for future blackmail.

Atsumu smiles gleefully, and the ace can't say this wasn't worth it. Endorphines flood his brain. The response is momentary, but he saves this snapshot in time to look back on at a later date.

"Great! Ya never have fun with anything anyway."   
  
  


-  
  
  


The party is loud as is to be expected. Kiyoomi hates it, as is to be expected.

It's not so much that he doesn't like spending time with his team, but there isn't a lot for him to gain from wasting time with people he doesn't know. So he stands here, on Bokuto's balcony, staring out at the city still bustling with life. Cold prickles his skin but he doesn't mind it, it puts his soul at ease.

He's not lonely - okay maybe he's a little lonely without Atsumu beside him, but it's not overwhelming.

Atsumu was having fun. He was talking with people, tipping back alcohol to combat the chill, becoming lifelong friends with people he had only met a few hours ago - in other words, he's being Atsumu. Normal, extroverted, loveable Atsumu. He's happy. So Kiyoomi is happy.

Plus, he's never minded being alone. He doesn't now - he tells himself. He decides not to count that one as a lie seeing as he's still trying to process just what exactly this might mean for him. Kiyoomi has never wanted to be in the presence of other people, he doesn't enjoy it. It's too much work and he wouldn't know what to do anyway. It used to be his ideal state, _alone._

"I thought I might find ya out here," Maybe he's lonelier than he originally thought. Warmth seeps into the space solitude brought, and he realizes that being alone is inferior to _this._ "Aren't ya cold?" Atsumu takes his place beside Kiyoomi, exactly where he's supposed to be. Kiyoomi sighs inaudibly into the December air, breath misting.

"No, I find the chill nice," He doesn't tell Atsumu that the setter is the reason he doesn't mind the freezing temperature. Atsumu numbs the cold the same as he does with a lot of things in Kyioomi's life - his inhibitions, his fear, his loneliness.

"Omi, ya coulda told me ya didn' like it in there," Tenderness seeps into his tone, soft against the backdrop of the night. Distant noises sound in the background, but they're muted.

"You were having fun. I didn't want to disturb you," It's a half-truth. He doesn't intend to make Atsumu feel guilty, one of the few times, but it's evident on the blond's features that he does.

"Yer never disturbin' me, Omi. I like being with ya," Atsumu's sweet smile is genuine, and Kiyoomi melts inside. He can't comprehend why, though. Atsumu could be spending time with any number of people much more fun than him. Maybe people who actually know how to make conversation rather than one who just sits in silence wondering if you're getting tired of them.

"Why?" - He can't help but ask.

"Waddaya mean why?" There's a laugh tinting his voice that may bring a soft blush to the ace's cheeks. Kiyoomi's never been a bashful or self-conscious person, but the pure simplicity of his boyfriend's worldview makes him wonder when he got so up in his own head.

Atsumu doesn't even question why they're dating, there's no mystery for him as to why Kiyoomi finds him attractive and vice versa.

 _Why would he? He's charming, sweet, fucking hot as hell_ -

"I mean it's not like I'm the starter of sparkling conversation," Kiyoomi chooses his words carefully. He doesn't want Atsumu thinking _he_ thinks the setter's out of his league - even though he does, if that makes sense.

"There's no definitive _why_ Omi. Ya just make me happy," Atsumu turns to him as if he can see stars reflected in the ace's eyes. He looks at Kiyoomi like he's his whole world - the ace thinks he may crumble.

But then his expression changes, soft edges of adoration hardening into something worried. His expression is troubled - something is weighing on his shoulders, Kiyoomi can tell. He wants to urge him to open up, but Atsumu has been patient with him. He can at least return the favor.

"Speaking of how happy you make me, I wanted to ask ya...if ya would wanna come to Hyougo with me... for the holidays?" Kiyoomi stops breathing again, inky eyes cutting to the side to take in Atsumu.

He's shivering from a combination of the cold and his very obvious nerves - he's not half as good at hiding his emotions as he thinks he is. And his shimmery eyes dart everywhere but Kiyoomi, as if he's scared he might see something reflected in the ace's expression that he doesn't want to know.

_He's inviting me to meet his family. He's inviting me to meet his family. Does he actually want to be that serious with me? He hasn't even given me a chance to show him how high-maintenance I can be. What is he doing? Is he really this irresponsible? Do I even deserve this?_

Atsumu's eyes flick to his expression for a millisecond to take in exactly what his boyfriend is feeling. Kiyoomi's face must not reflect the thought's running races through his head seeing as the setter is suddenly panicking, rapidly shaking his head.

"Ya don't gotta be nervous or anything, though. Ya already know 'Samu so ya'd really just be meeting my Ma and she likes everyone. An' I know we've only been dating a few months but I've known ya for years- but ya don't have to say yes-"

"Yes," Kiyoomi answers before he can overthink this. He wants to, he does. And he decides now that he's not going to let worry stop him from having this. He _wants_ this.

Atsumu looks shocked, lips parted, chocolate eyes are wide and glowing in the warm light coming from Bokuto's apartment. He looks like he just received the greatest Christmas gift in the world. Whoever told Atsumu he was allowed to be so goddamn adorable was either a damn fool or specifically out to destroy Kiyoomi Sakusa.

"What? Wait, ya mean fer real yes?" _Obviously, yes. I would follow you to the end of the fucking earth if you asked me to._

"That is what the word 'yes' implies," He settles for sarcasm, as he usually does. It's always the safe option because it's so ingrained in his mannerisms that it's basically part of his personality.

The response he receives is a giddy sort of silence, accented by the beautiful grin on Atsumu's face - so unabashedly happy. Cheeks rosy, nose red from the cold, stupid smile plastered on soft lips, he looks like an angel. Kiyoomi isn't really into religion, but if he was, he would be convinced that Atsumu is truly one of God's archangels.

But he's not blind to the way the setter shivers. He wants to hold him. Right now, he thinks the only present he wants to receive for the holidays is Atsumu in his arms - terrifying as the prospect of touch may be.

 _He was just in a room packed with at least thirty people. It's a fucking Petre dish for disease. Not to mention it's flu season. If he's not infected with something, then you're the fucking Prime Minister,_ his brain screams. _He's cold, you could warm him up, maybe he'd even snuggle into you,_ his everything else contradicts.

"You're cold," _If he denies it, I won't,_ he decides. If he's not cold, there's no reason Kiyoomi should spend his warmth on Atsumu if he doesn't need it, right? At least, that's how he rationalizes the thought.

"Yeah, but it's not a big deal," Kiyoomi draws in a breath of freezing air to make himself brave. Not even alcohol can match the courage nighttime cold gives you. _Don't overthink it. Don't overthink it. Don't fucking overthink it Kiyoomi._ He saves that part for later as he wraps his arms around his boyfriend's waist.

The gesture is stiff at first - Kiyoomi has literally never hugged anyone in his entire life. Give him a break. But then Atsumu is warm, so warm. Their chests are pressed together, their bodies are flush against one another, and Kiyoomi's brain ceases to function properly. All he can feel is Atsumu's heart beating against his, sharing a sweet rhythm that isolates them and drowns out the cold. Kiyoomi doesn't think he can forget how this feels, he would never want to.

"Omi-"

"You can...hug me back, you know."

Atsumu reacts as if he's been told he has a minute left to live, muscled arms coming up to wrap around Kiyoomi's shoulders, head ducking into the crook of his neck. The contact of Atsumu's lips brushing against his skin is startling, but the lurching of his stomach that should make itself known right about now is nowhere to be seen. Instead, like everything else about Atsumu, it's sparkling.

"Are ya okay with this?" Kiyoomi can hear the care in his words, but they're cursory. If Kiyoomi wasn't, Atsumu wouldn't still be wrapped tightly in his arms.

"Yes," He breathes out against Atsumu's hair that smells like strawberry shampoo. He says yes even though he's scared.

He's scared of being scared. He fears the prospect that he might not be brave enough to do this the next time, so he stays, just like this. He wants to save this moment, live in it forever. So when Atsumu starts to pull away, clearly worrying that he might be being too greedy with his need for physical contact, Kiyoomi resists.

"Omi?"

"You can stay," He frames it as an allowance. It's a request.

_Stay like this with me._

Atsumu does.  
  
  


-  
  
  


They take the train to Hyougo the next day, and Atsumu holds his hand the entire time. Kiyoomi lets him. There's something about the contact that helps Kiyoomi momentarily forget about the fact that he's definitely surrounded by a virtual cesspool of germs and bacteria.

They're in their own compartment, at least, which means that Kiyoomi was able to wipe the entire place down before they touched anything. But it doesn't quell his anxieties. Atsumu manages to, though.

They listen to music together - with _Kiyoomi's_ earbuds which, yes, he will have to clean later - and Atsumu stares out the window at the scenery rolling by. _It's peaceful,_ he thinks. He decides he could get used to this, that he would be content to live this mundane existence forever.

When they get to Atsumu's childhood home, Kiyoomi is, quite frankly, surprised. Why he was under some illusion that Atsumu lived on a farm with chickens and horses out in the countryside is a mystery to him. But this stately, almost mansion-like home in the middle of the city is not what he was expecting.

Maybe he falls subject to his own biases regarding the way Atsumu speaks. Maybe it's just because he can't imagine Atsumu Miya being a member of anything high class.

Kiyoomi quickly realizes that the Miya family is far more unique than he gave them credit for. Their mannerisms and speech patterns laden with curse words don't fit the admittedly beautiful house and area they live in. Kiyoomi finds that he actually quite likes it.

"Ya boys an' not tellin' me shit beforehand. Honestly, I'd think ya two just enjoy drivin' me crazy," Is what they're privy to the second the enormous door to the Miya household swings open.

"Wow, thanks Ma, 's nice to see ya too," Atsumu quips back, sarcasm in his tone lethal. Judging from the expression tightening his mother's lips, narrowing her eyes that match Atsumu's, the blond's sarcasm isn't nearly as effective on her as it is on normal people. He learned from the best. That's not Kiyoomi's biggest concern, however.

"You didn't tell your _mother_ that you were bringing me?" He feels naked without his mask - Atsumu wasn't going to force him to do anything, but Kiyoomi knew it would be disrespectful to wear it. So he steeled his nerves and left it behind.

"Ya only said yes yesterday s'not like I had a lot of time!" He defends weakly before turning to his mother. "Why aren'tcha tearin' into 'Samu fer this too?"

"Yer brother already got his. Now get in here before I change my mind," Despite her tone, she ushers them in politely, holding her hands out to take their bags. Kiyoomi's about to refuse - he can take care of his own belongings - but Atsumu snatches them from him before he can, depositing them in his mother's waiting arms.

They wait in the doorway, unlacing their boots as they wait for Ms. Miya to return. Kiyoomi's eyes roam around the house - classically beautiful, tasteful decoration, warm atmosphere. It's oddly characteristic of the Miya's.

When Atsumu's mother returns, she grins, reminiscent of her son's smile. He can see the resemblance. Ms. Miya is far shorter than either of her sons, but has the same warmth in gunmetal gray eyes, the same flush in her cheeks when she beams at him - he can only assume the twins get their bone structure and heavy-lidded eyes from their father.

She extends her hand and Kiyoomi flinches, hoping his sharp inhale isn't too obvious. Atsumu is there to catch him.

"Oh, Ma-" He starts, but Kiyoomi takes her hand anyway. If there's one thing he's not going to be, it's the mysophobic asshole who wouldn't shake his boyfriend's mother's hand. As much as it makes his skin crawl, he reminds himself that the repulsion only a temporary discomfort for the sake of a good impression.

"It's lovely to meet ya, Sakusa-san," She says warmly.

If Atsumu didn't even tell her he was coming, she definitely doesn't know about his mysophobia. He doesn't blame her for not knowing, but his jaw tightens when she cups his hand in both of hers.

"Ya boys sure do know how to pick 'em," she smirks at her son. Kiyoomi would take the compliment, but he can barely hear her over the sound of blood beating in his ears.

"Yer brother's out right now, but he and Rintarou will be back in about an hour," She's talking directly to Atsumu now, but the blond's attention is clearly focused on Kiyoomi. "Ya should check in with him since ya both live so fuckin' far now." Kiyoomi must say he's surprised when Atsumu manages to limit his reaction to an eye-roll.

"Yeah, Ma. Fer sure," Atsumu nods, patting his mother on the shoulder. "But Omi-Kun's really tired. Ya mind if he goes to wash up before dinner?" As usual, Atsumu Miya is his saving grace.

"'Course," Ms. Miya smiles brightly - a silent dismissal, _I'll let ya go now._

The two shuffle away from Atsumu's mom, and the blond leads him up the enormous marble staircase, careful not to touch him as he informs him at a whisper, "The first door on the left is a bathroom." Kiyoomi nods, but secretly, his heart is exploding in his chest. Who gave Atsumu Miya the right to be so sweet? And why do they want Kiyoomi to die an early death of spontaneous cardiac arrest?  
  
  


Dinner is enjoyable, if not torturous. Osamu makes dinner - Kiyoomi learns that the reason he was out when he and Atsumu arrived is that he was grocery shopping. The ace will admit that it's good, though he shouldn't be surprised considering his choice of profession.

Atsumu and Osamu argue just about the entire time, constantly poking fun at each other, calling each other saps - they even get into a food fight in which some rice ends up stuck to the opposite wall.

Kiyoomi bonds with Suna, as much as he can, anyway. He finds the middle blocker's presence unoffensive. His calm, almost sleepy demeanor and humor based solely on sarcasm are much akin to Kiyoomi's - he shouldn't be surprised that the twins have the same type.

Occasionally, Ms. Miya will ask them questions, though there aren't many she can ask, and she's far more preoccupied with trying to tame her sons than she is with interrogating their boyfriends. Plus, what is there for her to ask? She's known Suna since the twins were kids, and there isn't a lot of mystery as to how Kiyoomi and Atsumu got together. Their story is special only to them, as it should be.

"I'm just sayin' that I'm definitely a better boyfriend than ya," Everyone thinks Atsumu is the starter of great feuds, but Osamu has just as much of a hand in it. Kiyoomi inwardly sighs. This can only cause trouble.

"Say it again, _bitch,_ " Their mother's cry of, _"Atsumu watch yer fuckin' language! We have guests!"_ goes ignored. Suna and Kiyoomi exchange tired glances across the mahogany dining table.

"I'mma better boyfriend than ya," Osamu taunts, leaning across the table to match his brother's offended stance. "Ya wore velcro shoes 'till ya were twelve 'cause the bunny knot confused ya. Yer literally a fuckin' five-year-old. I bet ya still can't get up on time without Sakusa-san remindin' ya." Kiyoomi tries not to smirk at this piece of new information. This is going into his portfolio of things to torment his setter about.

"That's fuckin' rich comin' from the guy who can't give a present to save his life. Ya gave me _duct tape_ for my last birthday! I'm not a serial killer 'Samu! What the hell am I gonna use it fer?!" Atsumu counters with a sneer, brown eyes narrowing dangerously. Kiyoomi's heard enough about Osamu's gift-giving talents - or lack thereof - for a lifetime.

"At least I can be thoughtful when I _want_ to be! _You_ couldn't be romantic if someone put a gun to yer head! Hanami Mori. Second year of high school. Ya almost _burned down her house_ with scented candles!" Kiyoomi's busy trying to decide if this is better than the shoelaces thing as Atsumu screams back,

"THAT WAS ONE TIME AND I ALREADY FUCKIN' APOLOGIZED." All while poor mama Miya slumps into her chair, having long given up on the idea of making a good impression.

Yes, dinner is enjoyable, if not a bit torturous.  
  
  


Kiyoomi stands now in one of the Miya's many guest bedrooms - Ms. Miya says she would've given them the twins' old bedroom, but she hasn't got around to changing it after they moved out. She says it with a tinge of sadness, Kiyoomi notices, and he wonders how long she's been missing them and pretending not to. Kiyoomi knows the feeling.

The room is nice - a large bed with a fluttery, four-post canopy, french doors lead out to a balcony that looks over the sleepy prefecture - but Kiyoomi stands in the doorway of the bedroom, paralyzed.

He's only ever been forced to "share" a bed once in his life, and he doubts that a bunk bed at a sleep-away camp with a kid named Toby from Florida counts. He knows that he's free to back out at any time - he can sleep in one of the free guest rooms and Atsumu will come up with an excuse to explain it away - but he can't tell if he wants to.

On the one hand, he'd be sharing a bed with another person for an _entire night._ So many things can go wrong with that. What if Atsumu kicks and moves around in his sleep. He's constantly moving during the day, it wouldn't come as a big surprise. And what if he has weird habits like sleeping naked? What if he snores? God, what if he _drools?_

But on the other hand... it can't be that much worse than what they've already done. Not to mention, he might actually find it nice. What would waking up next to Atsumu Miya even be like? What would waking up to another person entail? Warmth instead of the chill of an early December morning? Would he get to see that lazy grin and heavy-lidded eyes staring back at him, hazy with sleep?

He is frozen with indecision.

Atsumu won't be mad at him if he backs out. He never is, even when should be. 

"Ya can go at any time, Omi. Promise I won' be mad. Fer real," Atsumu is leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom, towel clutched in his hands as he wipes the remnants of water from his lips. They're swollen from toothbrushing. There's something pretty - filthy but pretty - about how they're raw. "We got plen'y of other rooms. An' I'll be perfectly fine-"

"I want to stay," Kiyoomi decides before he has the chance to think better of it.

Atsumu looks surprised, but only for a split second because then his face is splitting into that beautifully joyous grin.

"So yer sayin' ya wanna sleep with me?" Of course. He should've expected. Atsumu haphazardly tosses the towel in his hand to the counter before shutting off the lights in the bathroom. "How forward of ya, Omi-Kun. An' while my dear mother slumbers only a few doors down. Scandalous."

"I swear to god I will break up with you."

He won't, and couldn't possibly when Atsumu looks like this - bathed in silver moonlight, t-shirt stretching tight across his toned muscles, sweatpants hanging loosely from his frame. Who gave him the right to look so good in sleepwear? He looks like a god in clothes he could've fished out of a dumpster.

With all the grace of an elephant, Atsumu flops into bed, limbs stretched out lazily like he owns the place. Although, truly, Atsumu Miya owns every space he walks into. His natural charisma, his outsized presence, his appearance - like the universe tired to mash every kind of beautiful into one person. It succeeded.

Kiyoomi doesn't want to give Atsumu any more reason to think he'll leave, so he quickly sits on the edge of the bed - it feels like jumping into the deep end of the pool.

His breath hitches, breathing ceases to become an involuntary function. Anxiety sets in. His palms are freezing as if he'd decided to take a jog at midnight without gloves on, and his entire life plays on rewind like a movie. He's never, _ever_ in his life before slept with someone in the same bed.

He's held hands with people before, stipulations have always been attached in the past. He's hugged people, seldomly, but it's not unheard-of - though it's always an attempt at comfort, never for his own personal gain. But this is new.

"Babe, ya don't have to-"

Kiyoomi lays down, maybe just to spite him. He doesn't remember when Atsumu became able to call him such a syrupy sweet pet name so casually, he can't recall if it's ever even happened before - almost four months into their relationship and Atsumu only ever calls him Omi - but the soft side of him doesn't correct his boyfriend.

He tries to think about this to soothe himself, but he is, most regrettably, unable to relax. He's scared again, fear climbs his veins like poison ivy - what if he does something wrong? What if he can't fall asleep? What if something he does keeps Atsumu awake? Kiyoomi has a tendency to overthink most things, sleeping included. Though, he's never thought this much about it before.

Silence engulfs them, thick and heavy. Kiyoomi wonders if Atsumu is the kind to say last affections before he goes to sleep. He wonders if he wants him to be or not. Kiyoomi has never been one to be so outwardly sweet. He can imagine Atsumu might be.

"Ya all good, Omi?" He's back to Omi. Kiyoomi breathes out a sigh of relief. 'Babe' is a tension word for the blond, he can tell. It means, _'Are you okay?'_

"Yes," This is not a lie. He silently thanks himself for that.

"Alright. 'Night, Love," That's a new one. "Tell me if ya need anythin'."

Atsumu Miya is definitely trying to kill him. He's going to be thinking about that one for the rest of the night, sleep will punish him for this with its absence.

 _Love._ Does that mean Atsumu loves him? Is Love a normal thing for people to call each other? When did Atsumu become so affectionate? _He's always been this affectionate,_ his brain barks back at him. Does this mean that Kiyoomi has to call him something of equal value? Do nicknames even have value? How is he supposed to know what is acceptable?

"I will. Goodnight," He hopes the tension in his voice isn't evident.

He doesn't sleep that night - Atsumu steals all the covers and is somehow still shivering violently (he doesn't have half the cold-tolerance of his boyfriend), and Kiyoomi is too paralyzed with worry to do anything about it. So they're both cold, and Kiyoomi might want to reach out and cuddle with his boyfriend who's probably a human heater, but he's genuinely a coward.

There is one good thing about Atsumu being cold all the time. At least Kiyoomi can pretend that his every display of affection is some attempt to further the longevity of his boyfriend - stop him from freezing to death. It's easier that way.

Kiyoomi can't help but think how much easier this would all be if Atsumu was curled into his side instead of on the opposite side of a very big bed that feels even larger with the distance.

Don't get the wrong idea, mysophobia isn't something people just get over. But it's a trust thing. Kiyoomi doesn't trust the rest of the world to take care of both him and themselves. He doesn't trust people to be clean. He knows they're not. But he trusts Atsumu. So now, now that trust is established, the foundation unbreakable, it is a matter of taking it slow for the sake of comfort. Kiyoomi can't tell if this is the easy part or the hard part.

 _Another step,_ he reminds himself, falling though he is. Steps don't matter when there's no ground to stand on.

Experimentally, he taps his boyfriend on the shoulder, rosy with cold, that peaks out of the bundle of blankets he's buried under.

Atsumu's reaction is immediate - Kiyoomi now realizes he was a fool to think Atsumu was asleep.

He flops over onto his side, innocent eyes wide with silver moonlight - god, he's so pretty.

Kiyoomi could live a hundred lifetimes and never believe he deserves this image in all its perfection. His hair is messy, his cheeks are flushed, his body still trembles, but Kiyoomi can see the way he suppresses his movements.

The setter opens his mouth to say something, but Kiyoomi silences him by lifting his arm, an open invitation. Atsumu doesn't grin. It's just a soft, sweet smile, almost teary - though maybe it's the moon - as he accepts the silent permission and curls himself into his boyfriend's chest.

Soft exhales of breath warm sparklingly against his adam's apple, Atsumu tucks himself against Kiyoomi's muscled body, and the security of having Atsumu wrapped in his arms eases the tension in the ace's bones.

He decides that this should become their new normal, if so ever Atsumu would let it.

The Miya's don't really celebrate Christmas (Kiyoomi can sympathize), but Atsumu gives him a gift anyway.

He gives it to Kiyoomi belatedly, not that the ace particularly cares. He's never cared about the rather useless tradition of gift-giving, but everyone else seems to. On occasion, he indulges people's uncanny need to further the pointless custom, but mostly it merely serves to frustrate him.

That is not the case with Atsumu. He doesn't see how it really could be - nothing is ever really _normal_ with Atsumu. At least in the way Kiyoomi would describe normal before the setter entered his life. Normal _was_ simple, and routine, and planned out. And Atsumu Miya is none of those things.

When he opens the box in his hands - not even so much as wrapped, just a small box made of cardboard - he inhales a sharp breath of freezing air.

He never thought it was possible to fall this hard for someone. Not in real life, at least. All the media he'd been subjected to over a lifetime had trained him to know that love is like the warm tingling of pins and needles. In reality, Kiyoomi has learned that it is ephemeral, chimerical, fleeting with a soft touch - or at least that's what he thought.

Falling for Atsumu Miya is like taking a nose dive off the edge of the Grand Canyon.

He feels hits the ground with bone-shattering impact as he stares at a necklace - silver-plated, the delicate charm on the chain molded in the shape of...a molecule. It's... _beautiful._ Kiyoomi doesn't wear jewelry. He might wear this.

He can feel Atsumu's eyes watching him, scanning his reaction for any warning flags.

"I know it's kinda girly or whatever, but the dude at the store said it's a bleach molecule 'cause ya like everythin' clean all the time - I mean, I wouldn' know if he was lyin' or not 'cause I don't got random shit like that memorized but... an' if ya don't like it-"

"I like it."

"Really?" Atsumu questions like it's an impossibility. His eyebrows shoot up, innocent eyes widen, plump lips part in abject shock. "I thought ya were gonna think it was corny an' give it back-"

"Shut up or I just might," He closes the lid back over the box and slips the gift into the pocket of his coat like it's something precious - more precious to him than Atsumu could ever comprehend - before his eyes land on his favorite sight.

Atsumu Miya stands before him, flushed and happy, like he's the one receiving a beautiful gift and not the other way around. The setter, as always, doesn't touch him, doesn't push a single boundary, shows contentment just in the act of being in Kiyoomi's presence.

 _I don't deserve you, I don't deserve this. I'm stealing someone else's perfect life and I'm going to wake up one day and I'll be alone in my apartment,_ Kiyoomi is convinced. He is content to be a hardened criminal if this is the payoff. He would spend an eternity jailed in the afterlife for these stolen moments.

"Why did you give it to me?" - He questions, poking the bear because he can't help it.

"Waddya mean why? It's a gift, Omi. I bought it for ya 'cause it made me think of ya," _Am I supposed to do the same thing when I think of him? But I think of him all the time? My salary wouldn't support it._

"But it looks expensive," He supplies helpfully.

"An' ya call me the dummy. Omi, yer worth way more than money," That just about makes his heart explode. Goddamn whoever decided it was okay to create someone so damn perfect.

"But I didn't get you anything," He identifies the unpleasant sensation welling in his chest as guilt. Guilt over not getting Atsumu something to show just how much he cares about him, guilt over not having the words to express it. There are so many to choose from. Too many and not enough to describe just how _happy_ Atsumu makes him. How both those facts can be true simultaneously, Kiyoomi doesn't know.

"That's not the point. The point is that ya give people gifts because ya like the little happy face they make when they like it," God fucking dammit his face is on fire, and he prays to every god he knows the name of that Atsumu can't tell. "An' _you_ got the cutest little happy face."

"You really like it that much, huh?"

"I _love_ it, Omi," There's that word, _love._ Kiyoomi adores it as much as he despises it.

"I'll have to do it less often then," Kiyoomi can't tell if he enjoys teasing his boyfriend more or indulging in the sweet moments - he thanks the universe for allowing him both.

"Ya suck, ya know that. I jus' did somethin' real nice for ya an' ya didn' even say thank you."

"Thank you," Kiyoomi is genuinely thanking him - yes, it is partially because he knows it'll get in Atsumu's head, but there's also sincerity behind his words.

"Yer just sayin' that 'cause I mentioned it," Kiyoomi takes his boyfriend's hand at the very moment the words leave Atsumu's mouth, and he almost considers pulling away as punishment. But then Atsumu leans his head against Kiyoomi's shoulder, and Kiyoomi can't help but reciprocate because the perfect intimacy of it all makes his head spin.

And it suddenly hits him that this is the reality he never thought his brain would allow him to have. This warmth and soft tenderness and beautiful simplicity was always so far out of reach. And now it isn't. Kiyoomi can have this, this moment, this feeling, Atsumu's hand in his, Atsumu's head on his shoulder, and he doesn't have to worry about it spontaneously vanishing.

He has these moments and maybe, if he's lucky, he'll get to have them forever.

"Jesus, you're impossible."  
  
  


-  
  
  


A month passes, small steps are taken.

Steps like Atsumu non-verbally requesting physical affection. He's not obnoxious about it, he'll hold out his hand for Kiyoomi to take if he so desires. The understanding still lies etched into the lines of his palm - _I want it, but you don't have to._

It has become automatic for the ace to reciprocate. Atsumu holds his hand out, Kiyoomi takes it. It's that simple, and Kiyoomi feels like he's never been happier.

Kiyoomi's still the one to initiate more intimate forms of contact - hugging (which is mostly reserved for after games and when they're alone), cuddling, and then there's what Kiyoomi likes to think of as full-body-entanglement (which, yes, is different from cuddling).

(It refers to the times when Atsumu falls asleep during a movie with his head buried in the crook of Kiyoomi's neck and his arms are tangled around Kiyoomi's torso like he's a life-size teddy bear. Times when Kiyoomi's neck is cramping and his arm is falling asleep, but Atsumu is far too precious to wake up.)

Atsumu stays at his apartment now. He sleeps over sometimes when Kiyoomi allows it - usually it's just because the ace is far too tired to protest. Kiyoomi will never divulge that he likes having Atsumu's warmth a steady comfort beside him. His pride wouldn't withstand the blow. 

Some flowers die off and wither away, others disintegrate into their basic parts, petals falling away. Intimacy becomes something to experience beyond the physical. And Kiyoomi thinks that this disgusting domesticity might be a beautiful downfall.   
  
  


-

  
  
  
The beginning of the end is a Sunday in February. 

All Sundays in February are cold because the warmth of March hasn't decided its presence is needed yet, but this one feels particularly cold. Or it will, he hasn't reached that point just yet.

They're in Kiyoomi's apartment because Atsumu had whined about the heat being broken in his - _"I trida get my landlord to listen but the dude's a stubborn asshole!"_ Kiyoomi is almost sure that Atsumu just pissed him off enough that the heater became his weapon of choice.

But Kiyoomi doesn't mind indulging his boyfriend. Atsumu adds a special warmth to Kiyoomi's home that he can't quite put a label on - maybe Atsumu is what makes a place home and the warmth follows him because of it. Kiyoomi doesn't really know. Kiyoomi doesn't really care as long as Atsumu is willing to be his home. Home with a capital H. 

Atsumu's head rests on his chest, setter fingers tap in time with Kiyoomi's heartbeat unbelievably gently as they watch the new Terminator movie - Kiyoomi never really got into the series, but Atsumu somehow talked him into spending money on it. 

It's not as interesting as he thought it would be, but Atsumu makes it worth it with the way he drapes himself over Kiyoomi like a blanket - the warmth melts the tension that holds Kiyoomi's soul captive most days. He would resist the degradation of his strength around the setter, but by now it's second nature to let himself fall. 

So he lets himself be sated by the gentle rise and fall of Atsumu's chest, by the feeling of Atsumu's heart beating against his, by the ethereal moment. Kiyoomi sometimes wonders if he's living someone else's memories. If the universe has a balance, what has he done to deserve having this? What good deed to he do to warrant what he's receiving? Is he living borrowed moments? Does he care if he is?

When the credits roll, Atsumu leans his chin against Kiyoomi's sternum before he pushes himself up onto his hands, hovering over the ace. 

Golden hair flops over glittering brown eyes that hold too much affection to be allowable - sometimes Kiyoomi wants to tell him that he chose the wrong person to care about so much. Kiyoomi wants to tell him the truth which is that he can do so much better, that he find someone who's able to give him everything he deserves, who _isn't Kiyoomi._

But then cowardice replaces his voice, he thinks of a timeline that doesn't have Atsumu Miya right here, laying on his chest, staring at him like he captured the stars from the sky. And he wonders how bad it is really if he stays selfish for a little while longer. 

"So, ya liked it, right?" Atsumu's cocksure smirk wrings the combativeness from Kiyoomi like water from a wet washcloth. 

"It was boring," he says just to be combative - it's half true. He didn't hate it. It wasn't his favorite movie, and he certainly wouldn't watch it again, but he enjoyed it more than he'd predicted he would. So he should at least give Atsumu points for that. Not that he will. 

"Yer jus' lyin' to be contradictory," Atsumu calls his bluff, lowering himself onto his forearms as punishment. 

Kiyoomi's heart lurches like someone's just told him he gets to have forever with this man. His body feels the need to remind him how much he _wants_ \- his breath stalls, resting in his chest cavity no matter how hard he tries to force it out normally. Atsumu is too close and not close enough at the same time - if Kiyoomi had the brainpower to process how those two facts can exist simultaneously, he would. But he doesn't. 

Atsumu is close enough now that Kiyoomi could reach out and curl his fingers at the base of his neck and crash their lips together, he could melt at the touch of this man and do so willingly. He can feel Atsumu's warm breath tingling his lips, he can hear his own heart beating in his ears, he _wants this. He really wants this._ They could move languidly, live this dulcet existence until their joined sunset, if only Kiyoomi would let himself. 

He won't. He never does. How can you when you've trained yourself to know that the things you love are off-limits and those you despise are the truest part of your new reality? 

He doesn't quite know which part of his body moves, but Atsumu falls to the ground regardless, head nearly hitting Kiyoomi's coffee table. 

In something that seems like a fraction of an insignificant second, Kiyoomi's world cracks down the middle - flowers fill the divide. 

He can't breathe, but this is not like before. This is not breathless wanting or the cold rush of excitement but a sickening burn brought on by lack of oxygen. He is drowning in the tide of his own decisions, being washed away by the flow of his choices. 

He fixates on a single point on the ceiling to stop tears from welling at the corners of his eyes, a tactic that serves to be futile. Kiyoomi has never once wished to rewind time more despite the fact that he knows the outcome would be the same. His heart is splitting and his skin burns and every time he tries to open his mouth to say something it feels like he's drowning, choking on weak justifications for actions he himself doesn't know the reasoning behind. 

He feels like he's dying and it _hurts._

The words he finally manages to choke out after a century of frozen nothing are a half-baked representation of the hurricane of thoughts causing wreckage in his brain.

"Why aren't you leaving?" His voice is raw to his own ears, the words feel dry on his tongue like sandpaper scraping against his throat. There's a long silence. 

Kiyoomi's soul is falling apart at the seams.

"Ya want me to leave?" _No. No, I need you here, I need you,_ he doesn't say. He's gone back to not-saying. One step forward, three steps back. He fears that not-saying will become not-having, and that he won't be able to do anything about it. Regardless, he is powerless.

" _Why_ aren't you leaving _me_?" For once, he says exactly what he's thinking because, come light or darkness, fortune or wreckage, he's still going to be wondering at the end of the day. When you are fundamentally broken, wondering is a constant state. 

Atsumu looks at him so heartbroken, and Kiyoomi's never been so ashamed. No one cries beautiful, but Atsumu turns ugly on its head as he seems to be able to do with everything - Kiyoomi doesn't know when he developed the talent. Maybe he's always had it. 

His elbows rest on his knees as he looks up at Kiyoomi - he can't possibly be comfortable with the blunt edge of a glass coffee table digging against his spine, but he doesn't make any move to readjust. He just sits there. He's uncomfortable, but he sits there. He doesn't get what he wants, but he sits there. He doesn't get even half of what he should, but he sits there, patiently waiting.

"Don' ya get it, Omi? 'M not just gonna give up because of a little hiccup. I don' care if ya can't kiss me. I _don't care._ I wanna be with ya," those are the saddest words Kiyoomi could've hoped for. Yes, he knows Atsumu wants to be with him but why? He shouldn't. Kiyoomi is a human disaster, a walking dysfunction in this world. 

"I don't understand you," he confides at a whisper - if he tries to push his voice louder, it will reflect the break in his soul. He doesn't know if the brokenness is new or if it has always been there, if he's been covering it up his whole life with duct tape. 

"Omi...ya gotta have a little faith in me," the world stops rotating for a long second in time, realization has a tangible grip on his consciousness. 

Atsumu's flower takes the shape of doubt - doubt that Kiyoomi believes his words, doubt that Kiyoomi knows he wants him, doubt that Kiyoomi sees how hard he's trying. He finds himself shocked once again by his selfishness - he's always known he's self-absorbed but he can't help but imagine what it must be like to go through a relationship feeling like the other person doesn't believe a word falling from your lips. 

_Of course I have faith in you,_ he wants to say even though it would be a lie. He hasn't, truthfully. He never has, in anyone. Maybe it's part of the human condition. Maybe it's just his condition, another layer to his dysfunction. 

_"I care about you,"_ those words spark something akin to a gag reflex, an unintentional denial - they could be telling the whole honest truth or a bitter lie, but Kiyoomi would never know. To him, it would always be the latter.

He's never cared so much before. He wishes he could go back to a time when he didn't, or maybe didn't know how to. Trying to make it work when he's never had _it_ before is like trying to put a puzzle together with the pieces flipped cardboard-side up - the big picture slips through his fingers like water. 

Everything has been screaming at him. _"Flip the fucking pieces over, Kiyoomi,"_ and he's been too dumb to listen. 

-

Kiyoomi spends that night alone in his apartment. Atsumu's excuse for leaving was vague and utterly justifiable. 

The bed reminds him of Atsumu so he doesn't lay in it - what was once perfectly sized to fit him and only him, his own little sanctuary, is now big and empty. There is a vacancy that makes his chest ache - the pain is somehow unfamiliar and a thing he holds close to his heart. 

Kiyoomi thinks it interesting how a single deviation in the norm causes a ripple effect the size of a tidal wave. 

This should be normal. This should be what he wants. This is his ideal state. Alone. 

But instead of basking in it, he sits against his apartment door, knees pressed tightly to his chest, supported by the cage of his arms, as if it could somehow bring him closer to the missing warmth that makes everything else seem cold when it's gone. Atsumu's absence is an endothermic reaction that leaves him unable to stop shaking. 

Kiyoomi's chin rests between the valley of his knees pressed tight together as he stares absently across his apartment - the view from where he sits gives him a steady image of the skyline. He should find it beautiful, but it seems that Kiyoomi's ability to see beauty has been reserved by Atsumu Miya. 

Kiyoomi considers himself lucky that he hasn't fallen into the trap of depression, the demonic claws of anxiety - doctors always told him he should be on careful watch of himself as it's not uncommon for people who suffer "mental disabilities" to have one or more other underlying mental health issues. But Kiyoomi has never felt anything less than fine with his mysophobia.

That's not the case now. Not really. He doesn't care what people think. But Atsumu isn't _people._ Atsumu is Atsumu. 

_What's wrong with you? What's wrong with you? What's wrong with you? What's wrong with you? Why are you like this? What is your fucking dysfunction?_

The melody in his head chimes on repeat, a broken record rewinding over and over to the most tragic moment of his song. It scratches so hard against his mind that rational thought gets ground into all but white noise to fill the blank spaces between _what the fuck is wrong with you?_

He is watching the moment in a movie where everything breaks, where the writers manage to convince you that this story truly doesn't have a happy ending even though you know it just has to. _'Life is not a movie, Kiyoomi,'_ his parents always told him. They're right. Life isn't a movie, and if it is, he's not privy to the script, the writers haven't seen fit for him to know yet. 

As fatalistic as that may sound, the thought is more comforting than knowing he's responsible for his own ending. 

Kiyoomi focuses on the skyline painted against the starry night sky. He watches the rooftops of every building until they blur at the edges- wait, buildings aren't supposed to blur. Kiyoomi only moves to press a delicate finger under his left eye. When he pulls away, his finger shimmers with, _fuck that's just great._ Because exactly what he needs tonight is to cry. 

His eyes sting, his face burns, he tangles his fingers in his hair as if it will do anything - it'll be a horrible mess when the morning comes, but the future feels like an ephemeral prospect. 

And he sits there. And he tries not to think about how he looks - curled up on the floor. Fucking pathetic. And he tries not to think about what Atsumu is doing or feeling right now even though that's all that really matters. 

Flowers bloom from his sternum, their petals flood his lungs, taking up the place of air. He can't breathe. Thorns cut thin, deliberate slashes through what's left of the safe assurance that everything happens for a reason. It doesn't. Sometimes things just happen and there's nothing you can do to stop them, Kiyoomi now realizes. 

His garden is beautiful. 

Any botany fanatic would be ecstatic to see the way his flowers bloom big and beautiful, petals healthy and full, watered by salty tears. His mask, now forgotten, hangs on the wall as a fixture, blossoms peaking through its fissures bringing life to the soulless expression. 

In absence of a way to cut them back, Kiyoomi sits among his garden, crafted over so many years with frightening attention to detail. He enjoys the colors, the way the flowers surround him, caging him in. He used to hold the key to their enclosure, now they run free and wild. 

He sits across from his broken mask, tilts his head to gauge its expression. The slopes and valleys in the marble could form a hundred different emotions, all of which have names that are at the tip of Kiyoomi's tongue, though he can't quite get them out. 

Kiyoomi might ask the mask, _"what are you feeling? What are you showing me?"_ if he had the words. But he doesn't. 

So he watches the skyline blur. He lets his flowers thrive.


	3. ❁

In times of great need, Kiyoomi finds himself calling on two trusted people. 

Komori and Yachi are willing to indulge his silence. The only reason they're currently laying on the floor of Kiyoomi's apartment around his coffee table - the scene of the crime that has managed to dismantle his world. 

The memory of Atsumu laying against the coffee table, head in his hands, teary eyes swollen, has dissected his universe into its basic parts, shattered everything he thought he knew about relationships. He is left picking up the pieces one by one, storing them neatly away until such a time when he'll figure out how to put them back together. 

Komori and Yachi don't make a fuss that all they've done in the past hour and a half is lay on Kiyoomi's admittedly less than comfortable hardwood floor and stare at the ceiling. The time for contemplation is for Kiyoomi's benefit - they all know that. 

Kiyoomi's head is a complicated place, much akin to a jungle despite what one might think. Sometimes you just need to give him a moment to cut his way out of his all-consuming thoughts. Or ninety minutes.

Kiyoomi can feel their confusion - he's not blind to the way Yachi fiddles discreetly with her hair clip, how Komori's tracing patterns across the wooden beams of his ceiling in an attempt to keep himself entertained. He can't steal their time like he does everyone else's. It's not fair to them. Normally, he doesn't care. He takes what he wants. But Yachi and Komori deserve better.

"I couldn't kiss him," Yachi startles at his voice - sharp, punctuating the air like a staccato. Flopping onto her side with a movement that resembles a dying fish, she regards him with warm eyes through the bottom layer of the coffee table. 

Kiyoomi can't remember if they even know the 'he' he's referring to - he hasn't been a good friend. That's why they work so well, Komori and Yachi never expect him to be one. 

"You know that's okay, right?" Her voice is soft much like everything about Hitoka Yachi. She is the perfect counterbalance to Kiyoomi whose personality is that of the edge of a razor.

"Not this time," he doesn't have the courage to turn on his side and look back at her. He might cry. He's been doing a lot of almost-crying lately. It feels horribly out of character, but he's finding that feeling so deeply comes with complications of its own. 

He feels like he's approaching the edge of a cliff in a car that's moving of its own volition - he can see the edge fast approaching, fears the falling, the not-knowing that will come with pitching into an endless pool of darkness. And he doesn't know how to stop it. So he sits there and awaits a swift-approaching end. 

He knows that it's okay not to want to kiss someone. He's never had a problem with the not wanting part before. He's never thought of it as a negative, as something that made him anything less than human. 

But to push it away when he wants it more than anything makes him a fucking idiot. He's a fucking idiot. Someone offered him the world - _"Here take it. It's all for you,"_ they said - and he slapped their hands away and stomped on their gift. Why? He's looking for the answer just as much as anyone else. 

"What's different about this time?" Komori vocalizes the question that Kiyoomi can see written clearly on both his friend's faces. He knows it's hard for them to understand - the up and down, the on and off that mold who Kiyoomi is - but they're saints for trying. 

"I wanted to," his tongue feels like sandpaper as he finally admits it out loud. Burning tears harshly combat the dryness of his throat, a horrible contradiction.

It tastes bitter, and he can't help but inwardly recoil at himself. Like black coffee on the tongue, Kiyoomi finds that he can't help but have an adverse reaction to his own truth - he would run away if he could. 

That's the tricky thing about Self. Like a shadow, it follows you, becomes all-consuming when darkness shrouds you, only defined when light seeps through the cracks in the wall you've built around yourself. 

For most people that's okay. But Kiyoomi doesn't like his Self. His Self and his demons have become entangled to the point where one melts into the other, a colorless gradient. It has never been an issue before now - his Self and his demons were one and the same and people could take them or leave them, a package deal - but now he has a reason to try and separate them. A _someone_ to tear them apart for. And he can't. 

He thinks he might cry, so he bites his tongue to give himself something, anything, else to focus on. It's counterintuitive, but it works this time. 

"You didn't feel gross or disgusted or uncomfortable?" Kiyoomi can tell Yachi's trying to keep her palpable shock to a minimum. She's doing a good job of it. 

"No," he doesn't have to think about it - if Atsumu ever made Kiyoomi uncomfortable, he wouldn't be in this situation right now. In fact, maybe he'd be on his way back to what normal should be. 

Silence swallows them whole, and Kiyoomi suddenly feels hyper-aware of the lack of conversation. It's never bothered him before, but this silence is not due to a lack of things to talk about - there is everything to talk about, too much. This silence is because each one of them is trying to sort through this new shade of reality. It scares Kiyoomi. 

Yachi and Komori always know what to say - they may not have the answers, but they have the words Kiyoomi isn't brave enough to say out loud. When they are quiet, he holds his breath in bated waiting. 

He stares at his ceiling, at the darkness that resides comfortably between wooden beams. He wishes he could disappear into that darkness, find comfort in nothingness surrounding him. Life is a grueling circus that drags you with it always, continuously. Like a bull in a china shop, each slight movement causes a change, and Kiyoomi has grown tired of reaping the effects of every action having a consequence. 

"Help us understand," Yachi breaks the stagnant nothing with a voice that could be drowned out by silence. 

Kiyoomi has to think for a moment. What metaphor fits this abstract situation? 

"It's like..." he starts. He's already talked himself out of a metaphor - _that's a simile, you dumbass,_ his brain chides him. "You're on a diving board, and you're not scared, but you can't jump. Even though it's hot out and you want to be in the water. Your body won't let you move."

That's the most he's spoken to anyone, Atsumu included, since the incident - he hates thinking about it like that. He hates thinking about it at all. And he feels like he hasn't had anything to drink in years. 

There's a long silence that could last years or mere seconds - time ebbs and swells like an angry sea. Each wave brings a new emotion or an old one that wells up intense in his chest cavity. 

But eventually, there's another crack in the serene-faced quiet, a fissure makes itself known as Komori questions with an assertive gentleness to his tone, 

"And why are you telling us this?" 

At surface level, the question is offensive, sad, not what a best friend should or cousin should really say. But Kiyoomi understands. _Tell him,_ is what it really translates to. It's good advice, really. Kiyoomi should take it. Whether he will or not is something his courage hasn't made a decision on just yet. 

If this were set in a time before Atsumu Miya, Kiyoomi would have already told him. The blunt words would've fallen from his lips as easily as breathing and the whole thing would be done and over with by now. But sadly, the fear of losing is an ever-present staple in his life that hitches itself to their every interaction. And Kiyoomi isn't willing to risk losing. 

It scares him to think that he already might have. But he sets that thought aside for now in favor of closing his eyes. He gives into the tingling urge to sleep despite knowing he will have a hell of a backache for practice tomorrow. 

Komori and Yachi don't try to wake him up - in fact, he wouldn't be surprised if they'd fallen asleep same as him. When he wakes up the next morning, there's a blanket thrown haphazardly across his torso, a pillow inched under the very edge of his skull. Kiyoomi doesn't have a lot of experience with good friends, but he assumes this is what it must be like. 

-

The seasons inch into warmth one by one, the days melt - literally and metaphorically - and Kiyoomi melts with them. 

Atsumu doesn't mention the not-kiss, the not-pressing of lips, the broken-ness. And Kiyoomi sure as hell doesn't have the courage to bring it up, so he lets himself melt into just how _easy_ it is. If Atsumu's opted to not-say, Kiyoomi doesn't see why he shouldn't too. 

When Atsumu lays his head in Kiyoomi's lap while they watch movies, the ace cards his fingers through unreasonably soft golden strands until the repetitive motion lulls his boyfriend to sleep. 

When Atsumu reaches for his hand on their walks to practice, he lets his hand be swung back and forth - Atsumu is much like a child in that respect. He never truly stops moving and it infects every aspect of his personality. 

When Atsumu uses him as a human teddy bear at night, Kiyoomi doesn't mind the fact that he's boiling - he doesn't get much sleep either, but it's far better than sleeping alone. 

And it's easy. They say that ignorance is bliss, but true bliss is really just ignoring the big problems in favor of plaguing yourself with the little ones that are far easier to deal with. 

The fact that Atsumu leaves his clothes scattered around Kiyoomi's apartment whenever he showers there - _"Omi, yer water pressure is everythin',"_ had been his comment the first time - he can deal with that. It annoys him, yes, thoroughly, but he picks the clothes up ceremoniously, washing them ritualistically as he would his own. 

When Atsumu falls asleep on his couch and Kiyoomi is unable to move him for lack of courage or energy, Kiyoomi spreads a blanket over him. He's careful to cover every part of Atsumu's body with the warmth so that he will not have to suffer the plague of ice-cold limbs the next morning - Kiyoomi knows that the struggle to warm up freezing body parts is a long-suffering one. 

In fact, things are going remarkably well at the moment. The problem of avoidance is pushed to the back of his brain, and when he finds himself dwelling on it, he chooses more pertinent things at the moment to worry about. Sometimes he thinks it's mature that he's choosing to focus on the beauty of everything Atsumu gives to him instead of the feeling of inevitable loss that seems a constant. Sometimes he thinks it's petulant arrogance, the belief that he is the one true god of his own life. 

Either way, the net number of flowers stays the same. Specific few fall away, others bloom in to replace them. It's the natural push and pull of life, Kiyoomi supposes. There's a delicate balance. It's only natural for them to want to equalize themselves. 

-

What comes after the end? Kiyoomi ponders this sometimes. 

He wonders what can be considered the definitive end of something as complicated as a relationship. Is it the moment you realize it's finally broken? The moment you realize you've fucked up for the last time, the moment you see the last staw snap in half like brittle ice? Or is it the moment you put a name to the feeling you're both experiencing: _nothing._ Or maybe everything. 

At times, Kiyoomi thinks he's maybe feeling everything at once, and he doesn't know how to stop it. Kiyoomi's feelings are a jumbled mess, the tangle of earbud chords that he's not dexterous enough to sort out. 

So he wonders if the end was when he proved he was fundamentally broken, or if he's still waiting for it. 

A part of him has been waiting for it since the moment he jerked his hand away for the first time. _"I'm sorry, Omi." "'S jus' not workin' out." "I can't do this anymore." "I can't wait for ya anymore."_ But it never comes. Like waiting for the jumpscare in a movie, he's tense. 

They're still here in the locker room, post-game soreness slowing their movements like molasses. Atsumu drums an impatient melody against his thigh. He always waits for his ace regardless of circumstance - the zombie apocalypse could be raging outside and Atsumu would still be there, leaning against the lockers, bag slung over his shoulder. 

Atsumu, like a shadow, has attached himself to Kiyoomi's soul.

They won, but they did so despite Kiyoomi Sakusa. He's never been so glad for the way he and his teammates are knit together like tight wool - he used to despise how they looped them in as though he fit there naturally, but now he appreciates how they manage to pick up his slack. Needless to say, today was an off-day. Though, he thinks of his life since the not-kiss that they've not-talked about as an unfortunate series of off-days. 

He exits the shower, towel wrapped around his waist, and a plume of steam follows him. It's like stepping into a different world, a colder world despite the warmth of April.

Atsumu is standing there alone in the locker room, arms folded. He's alone, it seems. The rest of the team has already left. Kiyoomi would have the mind the thank the universe for this gift if he didn't feel an impending sense of doom welling up in his chest cavity. 

He thinks it not an unreasonable feeling when Atsumu Miya's expression is as unreadable as a book written in invisible ink. Atsumu Miya is always expressing - usually you can guess what he's feeling based on eyes alone. This version of him is utterly off-putting. 

"Omi I think we should talk," the words ring in his ears, and the beginning of the end starts all over again, rewinding to the saddest part of the movie. 

He swallows the lump in his throat that threatens to eat his words - he's not going to cry, he tells himself. The burning of his eyes is seasonal allergies, he decides.

A spot on the locker room wall where a small divot of drywall was dug out becomes the new center of his universe - presumably it happened after a particularly good game when Boktuo or Hinata got a little too excited. He outlines the edges of the spot with his eyes, wonders if all things are made of the same stardust, if he could've been that divot in the wall that some poor idiot is staring at while he's about to be left behind. 

Would that be preferable?

"You want to break up with me," he chokes out preemptively - Kiyoomi always prefers to get on top of a situation before it gets a stranglehold on his life, though he supposes it already has. Every thought trails back to Atsumu. He wonders if it's always been this way. 

Atsumu's lips part in shock. _Is he shocked that I'd suggest it or that I guessed it?_ His brain fiddles with his thoughts anxiously like a middle schooler with a chewed-on pencil. His mind trips over every possible way this can play out. None of them are particularly good, which is what worries him. 

Silence is usually his escape from a world of anxiety-inducing noise, but this silence feels like it's slowly suffocating him. 

"What?" The way Atsumu splits the quiet in half allows him to breathe. A laugh tints his voice - there's anxiety behind it for a quick second. But then it melts like the springtime. Nervousness falls into genuine amusement, and the characteristic warmth that Atsumu drags around with him fills the room in the form of his musical laugh. "Omi, is this about... No. I don't wanna break up with ya, 'kay?" 

His smile is so warm, fondness weighing down heavy-lidded eyes, that Kiyoomi thinks he might melt. Relief is such a potent drug, one Kiyoomi wouldn't mind getting high on. 

"Then what do you want?" He snaps like it'll hide the way his voice shakes. For the most part, it does, but the fact that he's stuck rooted to the spot, hand still fisted tightly in the towel around his waist says otherwise. 

He would move to get his clothes on, but a part of him worries he might fall apart like a broken doll. 

"Damn don't be so thrilled," Atsumu pushes off the wall, muscled arms still crossed over his chest, breaking the stiffness that surrounds them. "Anyway, I was gonna ask ya if yer okay. Don't take this the wrong way, but yer way off yer game. Have ya been gettin' enough sleep?" 

He wants to ask how he could take "yer way off yer game" the right way. But instead, he says,

"What? Yeah, I'm fine," like it's actually true and rifles around in his gym bag pretending he can't find his clothes. He lets his wet curls fall to conceal his eyes - he's too paranoid that Atsumu will see the storm of conflicted feelings resting beneath the surface of his eyes. Though, he's sure it's radiating off him in waves. 

His answer sounds fine to his own ears, but then he thinks about every lost service ace, weak spike, and, fuck he literally missed one of Atsumu's tosses (he'd never wanted the ground to swallow him up whole more in his entire life). His answer is a lie and Atsumu will see straight through it. 

"Omi?" 

"I didn't sleep much last night," he confesses - is a half-lie a lie? Technically he's telling the truth, right? He didn't sleep last night. It just so happens that that's only half the truth. So technically, he's also half telling the truth. He decides not to count it as a lie. 

"Like how much didn'tcha sleep?" Kiyoomi knows that Atsumu really does try his best not to pry - he might be an asshole, but Atsumus doesn't push limits unless he thinks it'll make him seem cute. He's actually right. His annoyingness is somehow transformed into charm with almost everyone (Kiyoomi is not included in 'almost everyone'). 

"At all, okay?" He can tell that Atsumu isn't happy with his answer by the way his eyebrows scrunch together and his lips twist with discontentment. Despite this, Kiyoomi snarks, "Satisfied?" only because he can't really help himself. 

Atsumu considers a moment whether this is an issue worth elaborating on - Kiyoomi knows very well that Atsumu can see through the thin veil he's put up. He's not tired- well, he is, but the reason for his exhaustion runs far deeper. 

They wait for a moment in mutually bated breath, analyzing each other like texts in a foreign language. 

"Damn, no needa be snippy babe," Atsumu seems to decide it's not worth the scuffle. Kiyoomi would thank him if it was at all in his nature. It isn't, of course, so he settles for a subject change to ease his aching mind. 

"When did that happen?" 

He doesn't quite know why he's perfectly comfortable changing in front of Atsumu. It might be, he figures, because he's technically been doing it for years. It also might be because there's no touching involved what so ever. He's perfectly fine with Atsumu raking his eyes across smooth pearly skin dotted with a constellation of moles. Kiyoomi would never admit it, but it makes him feel special. 

"What?"

"' _Babe,_ '" Kiyoomi mocks, pitching his voice higher to emphasize his point. Atsumu just breaks into that sly fox grin - Kiyoomi would tell him how annoying it is if it wasn't so damn pretty. 

(Atsumu is a kind of pretty that simultaneously makes you want to punch him in the face and cry about your physical inadequacy. Frustrating as it is, Kiyoomi wouldn't have the will to change it.)

"'Cause yer my baby. Baby Omi-Kun. Jus' wanna pinch yer adorable little cheeks," Atsumu coos and Kiyoomi pretends to gag as he pulls on his pants swiftly followed by a t-shirt. April isn't hot enough for summer (holds none of the suffocating humidity either, only an acceptable amount) but has no lingering cold from February. It's dryness and temperate warmth make it the least messy season, a fact Kiyoomi can appreciate. "My cute lil Omi-Kun."

"God, I _hate_ you," he lies. 

"Ya love me."

Kiyoomi doesn't justify his statement with a response because he worries he might break yet another part of _them_ by admitting it now - they would be stuck in this dirty locker room for hours if he just said the words on the tip of his tongue. _Yes. Yes, I love you._

So he settles for silence as he so often seems to do, slinging his gym bag over his shoulder. There are many situations when not-saying comes in handy, even when the not-saying of it all makes his heart hurt. 

Even so, despite the ache, he feels fissures in his mask healing. Cracks repair themselves - not so much like scar tissue forming a new layer of skin, but more as though they're being rewound to time when they didn't even exist. It all feels so natural. 

For the current moment, he lets go of his anxiety. Just for a moment, only because he knows it will return. So he holds onto it, lets it spacewalk into the ether for a bit, however still keeping it attached to the tether, keeping it close to his heart.

The thoughts melt away as Atsumu laces their fingers. Kiyoomi lets himself believe just for a moment that maybe he's not as broken as he thinks. Or at least that Atsumu will be there to pick up his scattered pieces. 

-

Ushijima is nothing if not a gracious loser. 

He invites the Jackals - the team _his team_ just lost to - to his house. Kiyoomi wonders if there's a reason for this, an ulterior motive, but he tries not to dwell on it. Plus, Ushijima is (surprisingly) friends with actually most of the MSBY team. Also a few guys from the Rajin's. One might be confused considering his introverted personality. There's no but. It's quite the anomaly. 

Kiyoomi really shouldn't be surprised that Ushijima's house is _nice,_ but somehow, he's still floored when he walks into what might be the compact version of a mansion - different from a regular house, by the way. 

The design style is much akin to Ushijima's personality, Kiyoomi thinks as he observes the practical layout. Small decorations sit throughout the elegant house out of characteristic necessity, but its simplicity is otherwise plainly stated. 

Atsumu's hand anchors him as they enter the crowded house - Kiyoomi's social anxiety was far worse when he was a kid, but sometimes it flares up around people he doesn't know well enough. And Atsumu has become his flashlight through the tunnel, so to speak. His presence seems to part the seas of people, so Kiyoomi follows along blindly as he often seems to do. 

Atsumu leads him through the crowds - some people bid their familiar faces hello. Atsumu deals with those frightening instances where Kiyoomi can't manage. A scowl mars his pretty features - they had arrived late because Atsumu is never really on time for anything. Kiyoomi would call it a pet peeve, though he currently has no right to be upset because Atsumu's tardiness has extended to him. 

What feels like a century passes as chaos ensues around Kiyoomi. And by chaos, he means just people talking, music, way too much background noise to be considered comfortable. 

He thanks the universe and his setter that Atsumu stays stuck by his side, almost like he's scared to leave Kiyoomi for fear of losing him. 

This is in stark contrast to the last real party they'd attended together before winter break. He doesn't know whether this is progress or a devolution of Atsumu's faith in him. Maybe a weird combination of both. Either way, Kiyoomi is satisfied with it - is it selfish? Maybe. But Kiyoomi's will to care is dulled by Atsumu's assuring presence. 

Kiyoomi consumes far too much alcohol, which for him means enough to make him slightly stupid but not enough to impair him any significant amount. But he blames his shallow lack of sobriety on the noise. It's not unjustified. 

Somewhere during the night - Kiyoomi lost track of the hours after nine-thirty - Ushijima appears from somewhere within the depths of his house. Kiyoomi realizes then that he hadn't acutally _seen_ Ushijima since they arrived. He can't tell if that makes him a bad guest, but he doesn't consider himself the Ushijima best friends, so he doesn't think the Adler's ace minds. 

He clears his throat, and the deep timber cuts through the white noise, drawing all attention to the olive-haired man at the front of the glassy living room. A man with red hair and a curious smile stands next to him, their hands entangled almost sloppily but firmly. They are cemented. 

(Kiyoomi thinks he must've chosen the gayest profession there is. That or the current crop of pro volleyball players in Japan just happens to be super homosexual.) 

"Satori and I are getting engaged," Ushijima announces with all the emotion of a rock - at least, one would think that from his voice. If they saw the rare smile (Kiyoomi doesn't think in all the years he's known Ushijima that he's ever seen the olive-haired man smile) blooming on his lips, the would know otherwise.

The crowd requires no extra information and the noise erupts again like a volcano gushing hot lava. His teammates nearly tackle him to the ground and Kiyoomi has the presence of mind to smile in extended happiness. 

Because he is, truly, happy for Ushijima. He doesn't know who Satori is, and the extent of his and Ushijima's friendship is occasionally getting tea on an off-day, but people are happy for people they don't even know the names of all the time. The fact that Kiyoomi has a credible connection makes the second-hand joy far more potent. 

He would be lying, however, if he said he doesn't feel the slightest pang of bittersweetness. You know how you can be jealous of things that have nothing to do with you, the dull ache of _I'm never going to have that_ ringing in your chest. And it isn't so much that you want exactly what they have, but the knowledge that you will never get the same experience hurts. 

Kiyoomi shoves the feeling aside as Atsumu whispers, 

"'Guess everyone's gay in our world."

Kiyoomi doesn't laugh or even visibly react, but Atsumu grins because he knows the nothing means Kiyoomi heard him loud and clear.

After that, time seems to provide him with a slinky effect - snapping back quickly once they move past the almost saccharine moment back the celebrating of it all. And Kiyoomi decides that he doesn't want to keep suffocating, that he wants to enjoy Atsumu's presence somewhere where he may actually breathe. 

It's not so much that he doesn't want to support Ushijima and... Satori? But after he and Atsumu had bid them congratulations, he doesn't feel there is much point in him standing around. Atsumu is the one who talks to people, Kiyoomi is the barnacle attached to him. And when Atsumu leans his head against the ace, the weariness of his sigh is evident, motivation enough for Kiyoomi to be a little selfish and facilitate their escape. 

He drags his setter by their intertwined hands out the front door - they aren't leaving, but in a sense, they are. They have made the small, likely inconsequential impact they came here to make. They haven't technically overstayed their welcome, but it feels like they have. 

Kiyoomi decides for the both of them that this time is _their_ time. 

Down a cobblestone pathway, they walk like that, hands tangled with Kiyoomi slightly stumbling the lead until they are leaning against the brick wall that stands guard over the Ushijima residence. 

There is no one here but them, and Kiyoomi breathes in the absence of noise, of distraction to steal his attention from Atsumu Miya. Instead, there is sweet silence and the softness of warm humidity surrounds them bindingly as they lean side by side against the cold brick.

Taciturnity takes purchase in the space between them, but truly, it isn't quiet, and Kiyoomi Sakusa is who he is. Which means that thoughts ricochet off the walls of his skull, bouncing back and forth in a pattern that could be considered somewhere in between mania and insanity. 

Back and forth, back and forth. _Is this what's after the end? Is the end of us still coming? What if there isn't an end?_ Kiyoomi sometimes forgets that his story isn't really a story at all but a series of stops on a track lined with shops where memories are sold as souvenirs. His thoughts stretch into incoherency, aided by the singe of alcohol in his blood that numbs rationale. 

And then his mind snaps like a rubber band. 

"Why?" The word escapes his lips on a rush of breath into humid night air. With that one word, his mind seems to tumble over the edge of sanity. Maybe he is a little drunk? Maybe he's not really in the right mind to judge his own sobriety. 

Regardless, Atsumu turns to him like Kiyoomi had just told him the world was falling apart. With heightened senses, he can hear Atsumu audibly swallow and wonders why the setter should be nervous. It's not like Kiyoomi would have the courage or bravery to break his heart anyway. Whether he likes it or not, Kiyoomi has tethered his identity to Atsumu Miya. Unwillingly, a fragment of his soul has been claimed by the man.

"Omi?" He says hoarsely, as if he's new to be able to use his voice. He fiddles with his own calloused fingertips, and Kiyoomi is reminded of countless times when Atsumu played the same rhythm on his fingertips. "What's this about?"

Kiyoomi feels like he's drowning as he sets his near-empty cup on the ground - if he wasn't dumb at the moment, he would make a mental note to pick it up later before it becomes litter. Unfortunately, the present moment is far too interesting to stray from. He can only hope Atsumu will remind him about it, assuming Atsumu is even still here by the end of this. 

"I want...to know why," he repeats as though that somehow makes it clearer. Evidently, it doesn't have the intended effect. 

"Why what, Omi?" The question breaks his brain. 

"I don't know!" He nearly pleads. His voice sounds too loud to be coming from him. "Just _why?_ " 

He falls head first over the edge of the cliff, gravity increasing on his words as they tumble out of his mouth at a rapid rate. 

"Why do you like me? Why haven't you left me? Why do you stay and why did you want me in the first place?" He can feel the alcohol buzzing beneath his skin like a drug. Rationality becomes diluted, and deep-seated thoughts he'd locked away spill off his tongue like a waterfall. "I don't get it, Atsumu. I don't get it. I don't understand why you fucking put up with it?"

There's no break between his words but he gasps in humid air - it provides him little relief, the moisture hanging suspended surrounding them causing him to feel like he can't take a full breath. 

He shouldn't be surprised. Atsumu Miya never really does spare him the mercy of allowing him to catch his breath. Wherever he is, suffocating affection seems to swallow Kiyoomi whole. 

"I'm awkward and I can't talk to people. You can't take me places because you have to do _everything_ for me just to make me seem normal and even then I can't manage to pull it off. I don't know how to make conversation so sometimes we just don't talk at all and you're not even bothered by it?" He's slowly unraveling, like a ball of yarn. The words fall from his mouth like bullets, unhindered by logic, unstopping for things as trivial as common sense. 

Common sense would tell him that Atsumu has told him too many times to count that he wantsKiyoomi Sakusa. Logic would tell Kiyoomi to believe him. Everything else reminds him that he's a human error. The world ran smoothly before him, it'll run smoothly after. He's a glitch in the system and he's dragging Atsumu with him. 

"Half of everything we say to each other are insults. I couldn't even fucking hold your goddamn hand for three months and when you tried to kiss me I pushed you so hard you almost cracked your _fucking_ head open, I _don't get it._ "

The confessions slip from his lips like little professions of sin - _I'm not good enough, I don't deserve you, I'm not enough._

His voice is hoarse - he's not used to talking this much, to pouring his thoughts before someone like this for them to pick up or stomp on. The lingering burn of alcohol makes his throat feel dry, a gross sensation when coupled with the heavy wetness of his lashes. Hyper aware of every sensation, he tries not to look at Atsumu.

If he does, he worries he'll see a man coming to his senses, realizing that no, Kiyoomi Sakusa really isn't worth the effort. A grim part of him wants Atsumu to see the truth - he might want to tell you that it's because he wants Atsumu to have everything he deserves. But Kiyoomi doesn't lie. In truth, it is a combination of wanting the best for this stupid asshole he's in love with and bitter self-loathing. 

Maybe if Atsumu leaves, it'll scratch that damn annoying itch at the back of his brain. Kiyoomi's always been an arrogant bastard. He jumps at the chance to be proven right. 

"You could have _anyone_ you want. Anyone sweet and kind and warm and friendly who can kiss you and hold your hand and give you what you deserve-"

"Omi, that's what this is about?" Atsumu takes a sober step toward him, and Kiyoomi starts to think this was a bad idea when he can feel the burn of booze drumming in his brain.

" _Shut up and let me finish!_ " He doesn't stop though. He's just drunk enough to stay stupid a little while longer. His brain, it seems, has already decided that he's getting it all out now. If he doesn't do it now, he knows he never will. That's not a risk he's willing to take. "I'm telling you you could do so much fucking better and I've given you _every. Goddamn chance._ And you took exactly _none_ of them. _Why?_ "

If nothing could be a sound, that's what this is. It's not silent, but the air between them is stiff with absence. Atsumu tackles it like he does most things in life, with all the grace of a sledgehammer. 

"Fine, Omi. Ya wanna definitive _why_?" Kiyoomi can't quite tell if the tinge to his voice is annoyance or fondness. If there's anything Kiyoomi knows from being with Atsumu, it's that both can be true at once. And then he smiles. He smiles and Kiyoomi wants to cry. Maybe he's crying a little bit - that's the only explanation for the burning behind his eyes and the sudden coldness on his cheeks when a warm spring breeze ruffles his hair.

"I think it's cute that yer awkward as all hell an' okay, sort of an asshole. I don't mind sittin' in silence with ya 'cause ya just make me happy without tryin'. Ya don't even have to do anythin' to make me happy. An' I like how we talk 'cause we wouldn' be us without it. An' I don't _want_ anyone else, Omi. I _want you._ "

Kiyoomi cries - it's hard to be wanted when you never have been before, and the liquor dismantles his walls. 

"Okay, look at me," Atsumu doesn't touch him, but he might as well root the ace to the spot with the way honey-brown eyes pin him in place. Atsumu is deadly serious. Humor is gone, replaced with an intensity not unlike the look he wears in-game. "'M gonna say this an' I wantcha to listen. Not jus' with yer ears, 'kay?" 

"What does that even mean-"

" _I love you._ " 

Kiyoomi is silenced - truly silenced not just by the construct of manners. He listens as Atsumu asks him to, at least he thinks he does. He can barely hear Atsumu's words over the beating of his heart in his ears. Atsumu continues, and Kiyoomi thinks this might just be how he dies. He decides he wouldn't mind if this is how he won't. 

"I love ya. An' I know yer talkin' about yer mysophobia, but that's parta ya. An' I love ya. So, by extension, I love yer mysophobia too. Which means I don't care if ya can never, ever kiss me. Because I love ya. An' I'll be by yer side until such time as ya decide ya don't want me there." 

Kiyoomi almost scoffs through his tears. As if Kiyoomi would ever not want Atsumu Miya standing right where he belongs which is right next to him. 

Kiyoomi doesn't think he's ever experienced euphoria before. It's quite welcome to enter his life anytime, he decides. He's sure it will now that Atsumu feels a permanent fixture. 

And there's so much. So much everything. The jumbled, random noises that all sound like music, the way Atsumu looks bathed in the warm glow from Ushijima's house and the light of the moon makes Kiyoomi's chest hurt. The pale shimmer should crash violently with the aureate radiance, but instead (because Atsumu can't do anything ugly) they dance a silver-gold waltz across the highs of his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. Even the tasteless humid air smells intoxicating. 

And suddenly he can't stand it anymore. In seconds, the fact that they feel so far apart has become unbearable. He feels he may die, feels he can't breathe. 

So this time Kiyoomi decides that maybe safe isn't better. 

Ironically, the air floods back to his lungs as he pushes their lips together. Kiyoomi can swear to any god you put in front of him that his soul melts to molten gold as liquid fire pools in his veins, melts him from the inside out. A memory is burned into his skin where Atsumu's fingertips brush against his jawline, where his thumb imprints into his waist. 

He's been drowning since the moment he accepted his fractured soul, and as Atsumu grips his bicep, one hand squeezing his waist as he reciprocates the bravery Kiyoomi is so resolutely putting out there, he can finally breathe again. His setter leans into him, warm tongue swiping at the seam of his lips, and all at once, it becomes overwhelming. 

Kiyoomi doesn't shy away this time from the _too much_ of it all. Instead, he lets their bodies mold together, be pressed against each other, respective warmth finding each other through layers of clothing - like them. They'll find each other across oceans, Kiyoomi knows this to be a concrete fact. And he parts his lips, an open invitation. 

To think that Atsumu could kiss any perfect person and he's so _wanting_ for Kiyoomi Sakusa. The tongue that shyly explores his mouth is warm and apprehensive, so Kiyoomi tilts his head in silent permission. Expensive words fail to aid the description of Atsumu Miya, maybe simple ones will do best. Atsumu tastes _fucking good._ Yes like booze and strawberries, but also airy sweet, the breath of fresh countryside air so clean that just breathing becomes a surreal experience. 

Atsumu Miya is his surreal experience, a dream he never wants to wake from. And, Kiyoomi realizes when Atsumu does away with delicate touches altogether, looping strong arms around his waist, that it doesn't matter how many flowers bloom in the fissures of his marble mask. Atsumu will be there to trim them when they spring up and see past the shimmering stone to the broken man that lies beneath. 

More importantly, however, Atsumu will love the man beneath. 

When they part, Kiyoomi falls back to the present moment. Atsumu is there to catch him with a gentle squeeze to his waist. 

It takes a moment for him to catch the breath he had willingly stolen from him as he gently smooths calloused thumbs across his setter's impossibly soft cheeks. But when he does, Kiyoomi smiles. He genuinely smiles. Kiyoomi doesn't think he's smiled so fucking genuinely with anyone other than Atsumu in his entire life. 

"I love you too," he says. The soft words spill into the silence between them, welling affection in his chest like water pooling in a rainstorm. 

Then he presses his lips to Atsumu's - it's chaste but warm, sweet and drifting like he's floating on the silver lining of a cloud, but also grounded and firm, tangible. Atsumu is _here_ with him. Atsumu is a constant that he won't ever have to worry about losing. He knows he will, maybe he always will even if they're one day married. But that's because Kiyoomi Sakusa is fundamentally broken. He just got lucky that he found someone willing to pick up his pieces. 

He feels there's no better way to begin their epilogue. Is this what comes after the end? It's not quite as scary as he thought. In fact, he finds he doesn't mind it at all. 

Kiyoomi decides now - as he watches Atsumu smile beneath his hands, feels that euphoric smile against the skin of his palms, setting his nerves on fire - that he will discard his mask and finally allow himself to see the man he _loves_ clearly. No shadows will be cast on his vision, no limiting darkness, just Atsumu. Only Atsumu, the future he wants presented clear as day. 

They have their first kiss in spring, and Kiyoomi doesn't think he can ever hate flowers again.

-

The first chapter of their new story begins when Atsumu moves in with him a month later - a step Kiyoomi feels shouldn't be as easy as he is. He decides to stop questioning now, finds that enjoyment is a much easier process when you're not constantly worried of losing it. 

Kiyoomi feels his mask looks much more beautiful as a permanent fixture on his wall - _their_ wall. Instead of hiding his flowers behind convenient lies, he molds them in words and shares them with his setter. _His_ setter, _his_ boyfriend, _his_ Atsumu. _Kiyoomi's_ Atsumu. 

It's not an immediate transition, but nothing with Kiyoomi Sakusa ever is. And Atsumu has the kindness to be patient with him as Kiyoomi moves from the soft presses of lips when they're in private to sweeter more languid movements as Kiyoomi gets more comfortable with the idea of a _kiss._

When Atsumu sits in Kiyoomi's lap for the first time, fingers threaded through soft ebony curls, a moan echoing through his chest and filling Kiyoomi's lungs, it's a little too much. They spend the rest of the night with Kiyoomi curled around his setter, head buried in the crook of Atsumu's neck while he talks in short bursts about how _he doesn't want Atsumu to leave_ and _it's not like he doesn't want to go further_ and- 

And Atsumu shuts him up by whisper-singing an off-key rendition of 'You Are My Sunshine.' 

Kiyoomi calls him a sap, tells him he's cheesy. Atsumu just responds by pressing feather-light kisses all over his face. 

So he keeps his flowers in a small patch, no longer a sprawling greenhouse. And when they start to get out of control, he shows them to Atsumu who tells him they're okay, who trims them in certain places. 

Since Kiyoomi can remember, his flowers have been the embodiment if his fractured persona, the sum of all his broken parts. He chooses not to question how he got lucky enough to find the one person who can love him in all his pieces. 

So he'll hold onto Atsumu Miya until such time that his flowers fall away into soft petals, and when they do, he'll look forward to the future he never thought he was allowed to have. 

Flowers or not, he has Atsumu. That's more than enough for Kiyoomi.

_fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your support and your lovely comments! This took up an entire month of my life but it was a month well-spent. I was going to make this have a sad ending, but since my brain is made of cotton-candy fluff, I don't have it in me to make this anything less than deliciously saccharine. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much, luvs!
> 
> ~ Unicorn-Flowers


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